THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

CARROLL  ALCOTT 

PRESENTED  BY 

CARROLL  ALCOTT  MEMORIAL 
LIBRARY  FUND  COMMITTEE 


xrbe  Mist)om  ot  tbe  iBast  Secies 

Edited  by 

L.  CRANMER-BYNG 

Dr.   S.   A.   KAPADIA 


A   LUTE   OF   JADE 


TO 

PROFESSOR  HERBERT  GILES 


WISDOM   OF  THE  EAST 

A    LUTE    OF    JADE 

BEING  SELECTIONS  FROM  THE 
CLASSICAL    POETS    OF    CHINA 


RENDERED  WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 

BY     L.     CRANMER-BYNG 

AUTHOR  or  "THE  ODES  OF  CONFUCIUS*' 


^'itb  lutes  of  gold  and  lutes  of  jade 

LiPo 


^i.'i 


NEW  YORK 

E.   P.   DUTTON   AND   COMPANY 
1915 


Pnnttd  hy  Hoiell,  Watson  <t  Viney,  Ld.,  London  and  AyUAury,  SngUmi. 


3i77 


C8S 


^'5 


CONTENTS 


Introduction 

The  Ancient  Ballads     . 

Poetry  before  the  T'angs 

The  Poets  of  the  T'ang  Dynasty 

A  Poet's  Emperor 

Chinese  Verse  Form 

The  Influence  of  Religion  on 

Thb  Odes  of  Confucius 


Exile 


Ch'U  Yuan  . 

The  Land  of 

Wang  Sbng-ju 

Ch'en  TzC-ang 

Sung  Chih-wen 

Kao-Shih     . 

Impressions  of  a  Traveller 
Desolation 


Mjsng  Hao-jan 
The  Lost  One 
A  Friend  Expected 

Ch'ang  Ch'ien     . 

A  Night  on  the  Mountain 


Chinese  Poetry 


9 
9 
12 
U 
18 
22 
23 

29 

32 
32 

36 

36 

38 

40 
40 

41 

43 
43 

44 

46 
46 


1495412 


CONTENTS 


TS'BN-TS'AN. 

A  Dream  of  Spring 

Tu  Fu 

The  Little  Rain    . 
A  Night  of  Song  . 
The  Recruiting  Sergeant 
Chants  of  Autumn 


UTo 

To  the  City  of  Nan-king 
Memories  with  the  Dusk  Return 
An  Emperor's  Love 
On  the  Banks  of  Jo-yeh 
Thoughts  in  a  Tranquil  Night 
The  Guild  of  Good-fellowship 
Under  the  Moon  . 
Drifting         .         ... 


Wang  Ch*ang-ling 

The  Song  of  the  Nenuphars 
Tears  in  the  Spring 


Chang  Chih-ho   . 

A  World  Apart    . 

Chang  Jo-hu 

T'uNG  Han-ching 

The  Celestial  Weaver 


Po  Cnij-i     .... 
The  Lute  Girl       . 
The  Never-ending  Wrong 
The  River  and  the  Leaf 
Lake  Shang  . 
The  Ruined  Home 


CONTENTS 


A  Palace  Story     . 

Peaceful  Old  Age 

Sleeplessness . 

The  Grass     . 

Autumn  across  the  Frontier 

The  Flower  Fair  . 

The  Penalties  of  Rank 

The  Island  of  Pines 

Springtide     . 

The  Ancient  Wind 

Li  Hua       .        .        . 
An  Old  Battle-field 

SstJ-K'UNG  T'u      . 

Return  of  Spring. 
The  Colour  of  Life 
Set  Free 
Fascination    . 
Tranquil  Repose    . 
The  Poet's  Vision 
Despondent    . 
Embroideries 
Concentration 
Motion  . 

OU-YANQ   HSIU   OF   Lu-LING 

Autumn 

At  the  Graveside. 

Appendix    , 


VAQB 

92 
92 
93 
94 
94 
95 
96 
97 
97 
98 

100 
100 

103 
105 
105 
106 
106 
107 
108 
108 
109 
109 
110 

111 
111 
113 

115 


EDITORIAL    NOTE 


THE  object  of  the  editors  of  this  series  is  a 
very  definite  one.  They  desire  above  all 
things  that,  in  their  humble  way,  these  books 
shall  be  the  ambcissadors  of  good-will  and  under- 
standing between  East  and  West,  the  old  world 
of  Thought,  and  the  new  of  Action,  In  this 
endeavour,  and  in  their  own  sphere,  they  are  but 
followers  of  the  highest  example  in  the  land. 
They  are  confident  that  a  deeper  knowledge  of 
the  great  ideals  and  lofty  philosophy  of  Oriental 
thought  may  help  to  a  revival  of  that  true  spirit 
of  Charity  which  neither  despises  nor  fears  the 
nations  of  another  creed  and  colour. 


L.  CRANMER-BYNG. 
S.  A.  KAPADIA. 


nokthbrook  society, 
21,  Cromwell  Road, 
London,  S.W. 


A  LUTE   OF   JADE 


INTRODUCTION 
The  Ancient  Ballads 

A  LITTLE  under  three  hundred  years,  from 
A.D.  618  to  906,  the  period  of  the  T'ang 
dynasty,  and  the  great  age  of  Chinese  poetry  had 
come  and  gone.  Far  back  in  the  twiUght  of 
history,  at  least  1,700  years  before  Christ,  the 
Chinese  people  sang  their  songs  of  kings  and  feudal 
princes  good  or  bad,  of  husbandry,  or  now  and  then 
songs  with  the  more  personal  note  of  simple  joys 
and  sorrows.  All  things  in  these  Odes  collected 
by  Confucius  belong  to  the  surface  of  life  ;  they 
are  the  work  of  those  who  easily  plough  light 
furrows,  knowing  nothing  of  hidden  gold.  Only 
at  rare  moments  of  exaltation  or  despair  do  we 
hear  the  lyrical  cry  rising  above  the  monotone 
of  dreamlike  content.  Even  the  magnificent 
outburst  at  the  beginning  of  this  book,  in  which 


10  THE   ANCIENT  BALLADS 

the  unhappy  woman  compares  her  heart  to  a 
dying  moon,  is  prefaced  by  vague  complaint : 


My  brothers,  although  they  support 
Are  angry  if  I  speak  of  my  sadneea. 

My  sadness  is  so  great, 
Nearly  all  are  jealous  of  me  ; 
Many  calumnies  attack  me, 
And  scorning  spares  me  not. 
Yet  what  harm  have  I  done  ? 
I  can  show  a  clear  conscience. 


me  not. 


Yes,  the  conscience  is  clear  and  the  song  is 
clear,  and  so  these  Uttle  streams  flow  on,  shining 
in  the  clear  dawn  of  a  golden  past  to  which  all 
poets  and  philosophers  to  come  will  turn  with 
wistful  eyes.  These  early  ballads  of  the  Chinese 
differ  in  feeling  from  almost  all  the  ballad  htera- 
ture  of  the  world.  They  are  ballads  of  peace, 
while  those  of  other  nations  are  so  often  war- 
songs  and  the  remembrances  of  brave  deeds. 
Many  of  them  are  sung  to  a  refrain.  More 
especially  is  this  the  case  with  those  whose  lines^ 
breathe  sadness,  where  the  refrain  comes  like  i 
sigh  at  the  end  of  a  i^egret : 

Cold  from  the  spring  the  waters  paaa 

Over  the  waving  pampas  grass, 
All  night  long  in  dream  I  lie. 
Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  to  awake  and  sigh — 
Sigh  for  the  City  of  Chow. 


THE   ANCIENT  BALLADS  11 

Cold  from  its  source  the  stream  meanders 

Darkly  down  through  the  oleanders, 
All  night  long  in  dream  I  lie, 
Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  to  awake  and  sigh- 
Sigh  for  the  City  of  Chow. 

In  another  place  the  refrain  urges  and  impor- 
tunes ;  it  is  time  for  flight : 

Cold  and  keen  the  north  wind  blows. 
Silent  falls  the  shroud  of  snows. 
You  who  gave  me  your  heart, 
Let  us  join  hands  and  depart  1 

Is  this  a  time  for  delay  t 

Now,  while  we  may. 

Let  us  away. 

Only  the  lonely  fox  is  red. 
Black  but  the  crow-flight  overhead 
You  who  gave  me  your  heart — 
The  chariot  creaks  to  depart. 

Is  this  a  time  for  delay  7 

Now,  while  we  may. 

Let  us  away. 

Perhaps  these  Odes  may  best  be  compared 
with  the  little  craftless  figures  in  an  early  age  of 
pottery,  when  the  fragrance  of  the  soil  yet  lingered 
about  the  rough  clay.  The  maker  of  the  song 
was  a  poet,  and  knew  it  not.  The  maker  of  the 
bowl  was  an  artist,  and  knew  it  not.  You  will 
get  no  finish  from  either — the  lines  are  often 
blurred,  the  design  but  half  fulfilled ;  and  yet  the 
effect  is  not  inartistic.     It  has  been  well  said 


12  THE  ANCIENT   BALLADS 

tidat  greatness  is  but  another  name  for  inter- 
pretation ;  and  in  so  far  as  these  nameless  workmen 
of  old  interpreted  themselves  and  the  times  in 
which  they  lived,  they  have  attained  enduring 
greatness. 

Poetry  before  the  T'angs 

Following  on  the  Odes,  we  have  much  written 
in  the  same  style,  more  often  than  not  by  women, 
or  songs  possibly  written  to  be  sung  by  them, 
always  in  a  minor  key,  fraught  with  sadness,  yet 
full  of  quiet  resignation  and  pathos. 

It  is  necessary  to  mention  in  passing  the 
celebrated  Ch'ii  Yiian  (fourth  cent.  B.C.),  minister 
and  kinsman  of  a  petty  kinglet  under  the  Chou 
dynasty,  whose  Li  Sao,  Uterally  translated  Falling 
into  Trouble,  is  partly  autobiography  and 
partly  imagination.  His  death  by  drowning  gave 
rise  to  the  great  Dragon-boat  Festival,  which 
was  originally  a  solemn  annual  search  for  the 
body  of  the  poet. 

Soon  a  great  national  dynasty  arrives  whose 
Emperors  are  often  patrons  of  hterature  and 
occasionally  poets  as  well.  The  House  of  Han 
.{200  B.c.-A.D.  200)  has  left  its  mark  upon  the 
Empire  of  China,  whose  people  of  to-day  still 
call  themselves  "  Sons  of  Han."  There  were 
Emperors  beloved  of  literary  men,  Emperors 
beloved  of  the  people,  builders  of  long  waterways 


POETRY   BEFORE   THE   T'ANGS       13 

and  glittering  palaces,  and  one  great  conqueror, 
the  Emperor  Wu  Ti,  of  almost  legendary  fame. 
This  was  an  age  of  preparation  and  development 
of  new  forces.  Under  the  Hans,  Buddhism  first 
began  to  flourish.  The  effect  is  seen  in  the  poetry 
of  the  time,  especially  towards  the  closing  years 
of  this  dynasty.  The  minds  of  poets  sought 
refuge  in  the  ideal  world  from  the  illusions  of  the 
senses. 

The  third  century  a.d.  saw  the  birth  of  what 
was  probably  the  first  hterary  club  ever  known, 
the  Seven  Sages  of  the  Bamboo  Grove.  This 
Httle  coterie  of  friends  was  composed  of  seven 
famous  men,  who  possessed  many  talents  in 
common,  being  poets  and  musicians,  alchemists, 
philosophers,  and  mostly  hard  drinkers  as  well. 
Their  poetry,  however,  is  scarcely  memorable. 
Only  one  great  name  stands  between  them  and 
the  poets  of  the  T'ang  dynasty — the  name  of 
T'ao  Ch'ien  (a.d.  365-427),  whose  exquisite 
allegory  "  The  Peach  Blossom  Fountain "  is 
quoted  by  Professor  Giles  in  his  Chinese  Literature. 
The  philosophy  of  this  ancient  poet  appears  to 
have  been  that  of  Horace.     Carpe  diem  ! 

"  Ah,  how  short  a  time  it  is  that  we  are  here  ! 
Why  then  not  set  our  hearts  at  rest,  ceasing  to 
trouble  whether  we  remain  or  go  ?  What  boots 
it  to  wear  out  the  soul  with  anxious  thoughts  ? 
I  want  not  wealth  ;  I  want  not  power  :  heaven 
\a  beyond  my  hopes.     Then  let  me  stroll  through 


14      POETRY   BEFORE   THE   T'ANGS 

the  bright  hours  as  they  pass,  in  my  garden 
among  my  flowers,  or  I  will  mount  the  hill  and 
sing  my  song,  or  weave  my  verse  beside  the 
limpid  brook.  Thus  will  I  work  out  my  allotted 
span,  content  with  the  appointments  of  Fate, 
my  spirit  free  from  care."  '  For  him  enjoyment 
and  scarcely  happiness  is  the  thing.  And  al- 
though many  of  his  word-pictures  are  not  lacking 
in  charm  or  colour,  they  have  but  httle  signifi- 
cance beyond  them.  They  are  essentially  the 
art  works  of  an  older  school  than  that  of  the 
Seven  Sages.  But  we  must  have  due  regard 
for  them,  for  they  only  miss  greatness  by  a  httle, 
and  remind  us  of  the  faint  threnodies  that  stir 
in  the  throats  of  bird  musicians  upon  the  dawn. 

The  Poets  op  the  T'ang  Dynasty 

At  last  the  golden  age  of  Chinese  poetry  is  at 
hand.  Call  the  roll  of  these  three  hundred 
eventful  years,  and  all  the  great  masters  of  song 
wiU  answer  you.  This  is  an  age  of  professional: 
poets,  whom  emperors  and  statesmen  delight  to 
honour.  With  the  Chinese,  verse-making  has 
always  been  a  second  nature.  It  is  one  of  the 
accomphshments  which  no  man  of  education 
would  be  found  lacking.  Colonel  Cheng-Ki-Tong, 
in    his  delightful  book   The  Chinese  Painted  by 

I  Gilee,  Chinese  Literature,  p.  130. 


THE  POETS  OF  THE  T'ANG  DYNASTY  16 

Themselves,  says :  "  Poetry  has  been  in  China, 
as  in  Greece,  the  language  of  the  gods.  It  was 
poetry  that  inculcated  laws  and  maxims  ;  it 
was  by  the  harmony  of  its  lines  that  traditions 
were  handed  down  at  a  time  when  memory  had 
to  supply  the  place  of  writing ;  and  it  was  the 
first  language  of  wisdom  and  of  inspiration." 
It  has  been  above  all  the  recreation  of  statesmen 
and  great  officials,  a  means  of  escape  from  the 
weariness  of  pubhc  life  and  the  burden  of  ruUng. 
A  study  of  the  interminable  biographies  of  Chinese 
poets  and  men  of  letters  would  reveal  but  a  few 
professional  poets,  men  whose  lives  were  wholly 
devoted  to  their  art ;  and  of  these  few  the  T'ang 
dynasty  can  claim  nearly  all.  Yet  strange  as 
it  may  seem,  this  matters  but  httle  when  the 
quaUty  of  Chinese  poetry  is  considered.  The 
great  men  of  the  age  were  at  once  servants  of 
duty  and  the  lords  of  life.  To  them  official 
routine  and  the  responsibilities  of  the  state  were 
burdens  to  be  borne  along  the  highway,  with 
periods  of  rest  and  intimate  re-union  with  nature 
to  cheer  the  travellers.  When  the  heavy  load 
was  laid  aside,  song  rose  naturally  from  the  hps. 
Subtly  connecting  the  arts,  they  were  at  once 
painters  and  poets,  musicians  and  singers.  And 
because  they  were  philosophers  and  seekers  after 
the  beauty  that  underlies  the  form  of  things, 
they  made  the  picture  express  its  own  significance, 
and  every  song  find  echo  in  the  souls  of  those 


16  THE  POETS  OF  THE  T'ANG  DYNASTY 

that  heard.  You  will  find  no  tedium  of  repetition 
in  all  their  poetry,  no  thin  vein  of  thought  beaten 
out  over  endless  pages.  The  following  extract 
from  an  ancient  treatise  on  the  art  of  poetry 
called  Ming-Chung  sets  forth  most  clearly  certain 
ideals  to  be  pursued  : 

"  To  make  a  good  poem,  the  subject  must  be 
interesting,  and  treated  in  an  attractive  manner  ; 
genius  must  shine  throughout  the  whole,  and  be 
supported  by  a  graceful,  brilUant,  and  subHme 
style.  The  poet  ought  to  traverse,  with  a  rapid 
flight,  the  lofty  regions  of  philosophy,  without 
deviating  from  the  narrow  way  of  truth.  .  .  . 
Good  taste  will  only  pardon  such  digressions  as 
bring  him  towards  his  end,  and  show  it  from  a 
more  striking  point  of  view. 

"  Disappointment  must  attend  him,  if  he  speaks 
without  speaking  to  the  purpose,  or  without 
describing  things  with  that  fire,  with  that  force, 
and  with  that  energy  which  present  them  to  the 
mind  as  a  painting  does  to  the  eyes.  Bold 
thought,  untiring  imagination,  softness  and  har- 
mony, make  a  true  poem. 

"  One  must  begin  with  grandeur,  paint  every- 
thing expressed,  soften  the  shades  of  those  which 
are  of  least  importance,  collect  all  into  one  point 
of  view,  and  carry  the  reader  thither  with  a  rapid 
flight." 

Yet  when  due  respect  has  been  paid  to  this 
critic  of  old  time,  the  fact  still  remains  that 


THE  POETS  OF  THE  T'ANG  DYNASTY  17 

concentration  and  suggestion  are  the  two  essen- 
tials of  Chinese  poetry.  There  is  neither  IHad 
nor  Odyssey  to  be  found  in  the  libraries  of  the 
Chinese ;  indeed,  a  favourite  feature  of  their 
verse  is  the  "  stop  short,"  a  poem  containing  only 
four  lines,  concerning  which  another  critic  has 
explained  that  only  the  words  stop,  while  the 
sense  goes  on.  But  what  a  world  of  meaning  is 
to  be  found  between  four  short  lines  !  Often  a 
door  is  opened,  a  curtain  drawn  aside,  in  the 
halls  of  romance,  where  the  reader  may  roam  at 
will.  With  this  nation  of  artists  in  emotion,  the 
taste  of  the  tea  is  a  thing  of  lesser  importance  ; 
it  is  the  aroma  which  remains  and  delights. 
The  poems  of  the  T'angs  are  full  of  this  subtle 
aroma,  this  suggestive  compelhng  fragrance 
which  Mngers  when  the  songs  have  passed  away. 
It  is  as  though  the  ^oHan  harps  had  caught 
some  strayed  wind  from  an  unknown  world,  and 
brought  strange  messages  from  peopled  stars. 

A  deep  simplicity  touching  many  hidden 
springs,  a  profound  regard  for  the  noble  uses  of 
leisure,  things  which  modern  critics  of  hfe  have 
taught  us  to  despise — these  are  the  technique  and 
the  composition  and  colour  of  all  their  work. 

Complete  surrender  to  a  particular  mood  until 
the  mood  itself  surrenders  to  the  artist,  and  after- 
wards silent  ceaseless  toil  until  a  form  worthy 
of  its  expression  has  been  achieved — this  is  the 
method  of  Li  Po  and  his  fellows.     And  as  for 


18  THE  POETS  OP  THE  T'ANG  DYNASTY 

leisure,  it  means  life  with  all  its  possibilities  of 
beauty  and  romance.  The  artist  is  ever  saying, 
"  Stay  a  Httle  while  !  See,  I  have  captured  one 
moment  from  eternity."  Yet  it  is  only  in  the 
East  that  poetry  is  truly  appreciated,  by  those 
to  whom  leisure  to  look  around  them  is  vital  as 
the  air  they  breathe.  This  explains  the  welcome 
given  by  Chinese  Emperors  and  CaHphs  of  Bagdad 
to  all  roving  minstrels  in  whose  immortaUty,  hke 
flies  in  amber,  they  are  caught. 

A  Poet's  Emperor 

In  the  long  hst  of  imperial  patrons  the  name 
of  the  Emperor  Ming  Huang  of  the  T'ang  dynasty 
n<.)lds  the  foremost  place.  History  alone  would 
ncrt;  have  immortahzed  his  memory.^  But  romance 
is  nearer  to  this  Emperor's  life  than  history.  He 
was  not  a  great  ruler,  but  an  artist  stifled  in 
ceremony  and  lost  in  statecraft.  Yet  what 
Emperor  could  escape  immortahty  who  had  Tu 
Fu  and  Li  Po  for  contemporaries,  Ch'ang-an  for 
his  capital,  and  T'ai  Chen  of  a  thousand  songs 
to  wife  ?  Poet  and  sportsman,  mystic  and  man 
of  this  world,  a  great  polo  player,  and  the  passion- 
ate lover  of  one  beautiful  woman  whose  ill- 
starred  fate  inspired  Po  Chii-i,  the  tenderest  of 
all  their  singers,'  Ming  Huang  is  more  to  literature 

>  A.D.  685-762.  «  See  p.  73. 


A   POET'S   EMPEROR  19 

than  to  history.  Of  his  life  and  times  the  poets 
are  faithful  recorders.  Tu  Fu  in  The  Old  Man  of 
Shao-Ling  leaves  us  this  memory  of  his  peaceful 
days  passed  in  the  capital,  before  the  ambition 
of  the  Turkic  general  An  Lu-shan  had  driven  his 
master  into  exile  in  far  Ssiich'uan,  The  poet 
himself  is  speaking  in  the  character  of  a  lonely 
old  man,  wandering  slowly  down  the  winding 
banks  of  the  river  Kjo. 

" '  Alas !  '  he  murmured,  '  they  are  closed,  the 
thousand  palace  doors,  mirrored  in  clear  cool 
waters.  The  young  willows  and  the  rushes  re- 
newing with  the  year — for  whom  will  they  now 
grow  green  ?  ' 

"  Once  in  the  garden  of  the  South  waved  the 
standard  of  the  Emperor. 

"  All  that  nature  yields  was  there,  vying  with 
the  rarest  hues. 

"  There  lived  she  whom  the  love  of  the  first 
of  men  had  made  first  among  women. 

"  She  who  rode  in  the  imperial  chariot,  in 
the  excursions  on  sunny  days. 

"  Before  the  chariot  flashed  the  bright  escort 
of  maidens  armed  with  bow  and  arrow. 

*'  Mounted  upon  white  steeds  which  pawed 
the  ground,  champing  their  golden  bits. 

"  Gaily  they  raised  their  heads,  launching  their 
arrows  into  the  clouds, 

**  And,  laughing,  uttered  joyous  cries  when  a 
bird  fell  victim  to  their  skill." 


20  A   POET'S   EMPEROR 

In  the  city  of  Ch'ang-an,  with  its  triple  rows  of 
guttering  walls  with  their  tall  towers  uprising  at 
intervals,  its  seven  royal  palaces  all  girdled  with 
gardens,  its  wonderful  Yen  tower  nine  stories 
high,  encased  in  marble,  the  drum  towers  and  bell 
towers,  the  canals  and  lakes  with  their  floating 
theatres,  dwelt  Ming  Huang  and  T'ai-Chen. 
Within  the  royal  park  on  the  borders  of  the  lake 
stood  a  little  pavilion  round  whose  balcony  crept 
jasmine  and  magnoha  branches  scenting  the  air. 
Just  underneath  flamed  a  tangle  of  peonies  in 
bloom,  leaning  down  to  the  calm  blue  waters. 
Here  in  the  evening  the  favourite  reclined,  watch- 
ing the  peonies  vie  with  the  sunset  beyond. 
Here  the  Emperor  sent  his  minister  for  Li  Po, 
and  here  the  great  lyrist  set  her  mortal  beauty 
to  glow  from  the  scented,  flower-haunted  balus- 
trade immortally  through  the  twilights  yet  to 
come. 


What  matter  if  the  anow 
Blot  out  the  garden  ?    She  shall  still  recline 
Upon  the  scented  balustrade  and  glow 
With  spring  that  thrills  her  warm  blood  into  wine. 


Once,  and  once  alone,  the  artist  in  Ming  Huang 
was  merged  in  the  Emperor.  In  that  supreme 
crisis  of  the  empire  and  a  human  soul,  when 
the  mutinous  soldiers  were  thronging  about  the 
royal  tent  and  clamouring  for  the  blood  of  the 


A   POET'S   EMPEROR  21 

favourite,   it  was   the   Emperor   who    sent   her 
forth- 
lily  pale. 
Between  tall  avenues  of  spears,  to  die. 

Policy,  the  bane  of  artists  demanded  it,  and  so, 
for  the  sake  of  a  thousand  issues  and  a  common 
front  to  the  common  foe,  he  placed  the  love  of 
his  life  upon  the  altar  of  his  patriotism,  and  went, 
a  broken-hearted  man,  into  the  long  exile.  From 
that  moment  the  Emperor  died.  History  ceases 
to  take  interest  in  the  crownless  wanderer.  His 
return  to  the  place  of  tragedy,  and  on  to  the 
capital  where  the  deserted  palace  awaits  him 
with  its  memories,  his  endless  seeking  for  the  soul 
of  his  beloved,  her  discovery  by  the  priest  of 
Tao  in  that  island  of  P'eng  Lai  where — 

gaily  coloured  towers 
Rise  up  like  rainbow  clouds,  and  many  gentle 
And  beautiful  Immortals  pass  their  days  in  peace, 

her  message  to  her  lover  with  its  splendid 
triumphant  note  of  faith  foretelling  their  reunion 
at  the  last — in  fine,  the  story  of  their  love  with  the 
grave  between  them — is  due  to  the  genius  of  Po 
Chii-i.  And  to  all  poets  coming  after,  these  two 
lovers  have  been  types  of  romantic  and  mystic 
love  between  man  and  woman.  Through  them 
the  symbols  of  the  mandarin  duck  and  drake. 


22  A  POET'S    EMPEROR 

the  one- winged  birds,  the  tree  whose  boughs  are 
interwoven,  are  revealed.  They  are  the  earthly- 
counterparts  of  the  heavenly  lovers,  the  Cow- 
herd and  the  Spinning-maid  in  the  constellations 
of  Lyra  and  Aquila.  To  them  Chinese  poetry 
owes  some  of  its  finest  inspirations,  and  at  least 
two  of  its  greatest  singers,  Tu  Fu  and  Li  Po. 

Chinese  Verse  Form 

In  passing  it  is  necessary  to  refer  to  the 
structure  of  Chinese  verse,  which,  difficult  as  it 
is  to  grasp  and  differing  in  particulars  from  our 
European  ideas  of  technique,  has  considerable 
interest  for  the  student  of  verse  form  and  con- 
struction. 

The  favourite  metres  of  the  T'ang  poets  were 
in  lines  of  five  or  seven  syllables.  There  is  no 
fixed  rule  as  regards  the  length  of  a  poem,  but, 
generally  speaking,  they  were  composed  of  four, 
eight,  twelve,  or  sixteen  lines.  Only  the  even 
lines  rhyme,  except  in  the  four-line  or  stop-short 
poem,  when  the  first  line  often  rhymes  with  the 
second  and  fourth, curiously  recalHng  the  Rubaiyat 
form  of  the  Persian  poets.  There  is  also  a  break 
or  caesura  which  in  five-syllable  verses  falls  after 
the  second  syllable  and  in  seven-syllable  verses 
after  the  fourth.  The  Chinese  also  make  use  of 
two  kinds  of  tone  in  their  poetry,  the  Ping  or 
even,  and  the  Tsze  or  obHque. 


CHINESE  VERSE  FORM  23 

The  even  tone  has  two  variations  differing 
from  each  other  only  in  pitch  ;  the  obhque  tone 
has  -three  variations,  known  as  "  Rising,  Sinking, 
and  Entering."  In  a  seven-syllable  verse  the 
odd  syllables  can  have  any  tone ;  as  regards  the 
even  syllables,  when  the  second  syllable  is  even, 
then  the  fourth  is  obhque,  and  the  sixth  even. 
Furthermore,  hnes  two  and  three,  four  and  five, 
six  and  seven,  have  the  same  tones  on  the  even 
syllables.  The  origin  of  the  Chinese  tone  is  not 
a  poetical  one,  but  is  undoubtedly  due  to  the 
necessity  of  having  some  distinguishing  method 
of  accentuation  in  a  language  which  only  contains 
about  four  hundred  different  sounds. 

The  Influence  of  Religion  on  Chinese 
Poetry 

To  Confucius,  as  has  been  already  stated,  is 
due  that  groundwork  of  Chinese  poetry — the 
Odes.  But  the  master  gave  his  fellow  country- 
men an  ethical  system  based  upon  sound  common 
sense,  and  a  deep  knowledge  of  their  customs 
and  characteristics.  There  is  little  in  the  Con- 
fucian classics  to  inspire  a  poet,  and  we  must 
turn  to  Buddhism  and  the  mystical  philosophy  of 
Lao  Tzu  for  any  source  of  spiritual  inspiration 
from  which  the  poets  have  drawn.  Buddhism 
and  Taoism  are  sisters.  Their  parents  are  self- 
observance  and  the  Law.     Both    are  quietists, 


24     THE   INFLUENCE   OF   RELIGION 

yet  in  this  respect  they  differ,  that  the  former 
is  the  grey  quietist,  the  latter  the  pearl.  The 
neutral  tint  is  better  adapted  to  the  sister  in  whose 
eyes  all  things  are  Maya — illusion.  The  shimmer 
of  pearl  belongs  of  right  to  her  whose  soul  reflects 
the  colour  and  quiet  radiance  of  a  thousand 
dreams.  Compassion  urged  the  one,  the  love  of 
harmony  led  the  other.  How  near  they  were 
akin !  how  far  apart  they  have  wandered ! 
Yet  there  has  always  been  this  essential  difference 
between  them,  that  while  the  Buddhist  regards 
the  senses  as  windows  looking  out  upon  unreality 
and  mirage,  to  the  Taoist  they  are  doors  through 
which  the  freed  soul  rushes  to  mingle  with  the 
colours  and  tones  and  contours  of  the  universe. 
Both  Buddha  and  Lao  Tzu  are  poets,  one  hstening 
to  the  rhythm  of  infinite  sorrow,  one  to  the 
rhythm  of  infinite  joy.  Neither  knows  anything 
of  reward  at  the  hands  of  men  or  angels.  The 
teaching  of  the  Semitic  religions,  "  Do  good  to 
others  that  you  may  benefit  at  their  hands," 
does  not  occur  in  their  pages,  nor  any  hints  of 
sensuous  delights  hereafter.  In  all  the  great 
Buddhist  poems,  of  which  the  Shu  Hsing  Tsan 
Ching  is  the  best  example,  there  is  the  same 
deep  sadness,  the  haunting  sorrow  of  doom.  To 
look  on  beautiful  things  is  only  to  feel  more 
poignantly  the  passing  of  bright  days,  and  the 
time  when  the  petals  must  leave  the  rose.  The 
form  of  desire  hides  within  it  the  seeds  of  decay. 


ON  CHINESE   POETRY  26 

.h^..^'^'''^^''  ''  ^^^^^d  exceedingly  beautiful 

of  their  steadfast  heartT|;;°^^,    n"n,  ""t  "'" 
to  guard  yourselves?     By  relrd.W  h®  '/"" 

toil«  AT-   ™,'.  ^^^  ''"'^  disentangled  hair  a, 

mth'^X   sho^M^''  "^"'^  '"^"^      Then ',ow 
amorouXu^T'th^rshrrl  ''"l   ^'S"''^''' 

impurity,  thrunSri     Co^rdTrrT-   '""^ 

the  reality,  all  desires  die  out  "'"^"""^  ^^"'^  »» 

How  diflerent  is  this  meeting  of  beauty  and 

r  Sacred  Book,  o/  ,ht  Bm,  vol.  xix.  pp.  253-4. 


26     THE   INFLUENCE   OF   RELIGION 

Buddhism  from  the  meeting  of  Ssii-K'ung  T'u,  the 
great  Taoist  poet,  with  an  unknown  girl! 

Gathering  the  water-plants 

From  the  wild  luxuriance  of  spring. 

Away  in  the  depth  of  a  wild  valley 

Anon,  I  see  a  lovely  girl. 

With  green  leaves  the  peach-trees  are  loaded. 

The  breeze  blows  gently  along  the  stream. 

Willows  shade  the  winding  pathj 

Darting  orioles  collect  in  groups. 

Eagerly  I  press  forward 

As  the  reahty  grows  upon  me.  .  •  . 

'Tis  the  eternal  theme, 

Which,  though  old,  is  ever  new.* 

Here  is  reaUty  emerging  from  the  unreal,  spring 
renewing,  love  and  beauty  triumphant  over  death 
and  decay.  The  girl  is  the  central  type  and 
symbol.  From  her  laughing  eyes  a  thousand 
dead  women  look  out  once  more  on  spring,  through 
her  poets  find  their  inspiration.  Beauty  is  the 
key  that  unlocks  the  secrets  of  the  frozen  world, 
and  brings  the  dead  to  hfe  again. 

The  Symbol  of  Decay  ! 

The  Symbol  of  Immortality  ! 

It  is  perhaps  both.  There  are  times  when  the 
grave  words  of  the  Dhammapada  fall  like  shadows 
along  the  path  :     "  What  is  hfe  but  the  flower  or 


*  History    of    Chinese    Literature,    by    ProfeBSor    Herbert 
Giles,  p.  180. 


ON  CHINESE  POETRY  27 

the  fruit  which  falls  when  ripe,  yet  ever  fears  the 
untimely  frost  ?     Once  born,  there  is  naught  but 
sorrow  ;  for  who  is  there  can  escape  death  ?     From 
the  first  moment  of  life,  the  result  of  passionate 
love  and  desire,  there  is  nought  but   the  ^bodily 
form  transitional  as  the  Ughtning   flash."     Yet 
apart  from  all  transitory  passions  and  the  ephe- 
meral  results  of  mortal    love,   the   song  of    the 
Taoist  lover  soars  unstained,  untrammelled.     Man 
attains  not  by  himself,  nor  woman  by  herself, 
but,    hke  the  one-winged  birds  of  the    Chinese 
legend,  they  must  rise  together.     To  be  a  great 
lover  is  to  be  a  great  mystic,  since  in  the  highest 
conception  of  mortal  beauty  that  the  mind  can 
form  there    Hes    always   the    unattainable,    the 
unpossessed,  suggesting  the  world  of  beauty  and 
finaUty  beyond  our  mortal  reach.     It  is  in  this 
power    of    suggestion    that    the    Chinese    poets 
excel.     Asked  to  differentiate  between  European 
and  Chinese  poetry,  some  critics  would  perhaps 
insist    upon    their   particular    colour    sense,    in- 
stancing the  curious  fact  that  where  we  see  blue 
to  them  it  often  appears  green,  and  vice  versa, 
or  the  tone  theories  that  make  their  poems  so 
difficult  to  understand  ;  in  fact,  a  learned  treatise 
would  be  written  on  these  lines,  to  prove  that 
the  Chinese  poets  were  not  human  beings  as  we 
understand  humanity  at  all.     It  is,  however,  not 
by  this  method  that  we  can  begin  to  trace  the 
difference  between  the  poets  of  East  and  West, 


28     THE   INFLUENCE    OF   RELIGION 

but  in  the  two  aspects  of  life  which  no  amount 
of  comparison  can  reconcile. 

To  the  Chinese  such  commonplace  things  as 
marriage,  friendship,  and  home  have  an  infinitely- 
deeper  meaning  than  can  be  attached  to  them 
by  civiUsation  which  practically  hves  abroad, 
in  the  hotels  and  restaurants  and  open  houses 
of  others,  where  there  is  no  sanctity  of  the  Ufa 
within,  no  shrine  set  apart  for  the  hidden  family 
re-union,  and  the  cult  of  the  ancestral  spirit. 
To  the  Western  world,  Hfe,  save  for  the  con- 
ventional hour  or  so  set  aside  on  the  seventh 
day,  is  a  thing  profane.  In  the  far  East  the 
head  of  every  family  is  a  high-priest  in  the  calling 
of  daily  Hfe.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  a  quietism 
is  to  be  found  in  Chinese  poetry  ill  appeahng  to 
the  unrest  of  our  day,  and  as  dissimilar  to  our 
ideals  of  existence  as  the  life  of  the  planets  is  to 
that  of  the  dark  bodies  whirUng  aimlessly  through 
space. 


THE    ODES    OF   CONFUCIUS 

1765-585  B.O. 
Colkcttd  by  Confucius  about  500   b.o, 

SADNESS 

The  sun  is  ever  full  and  bright, 
The  pale  moon  waneth  night  by  night. 
Why  should  this  be  ?  ^ 

My  heart  that  once  was  full  of  light 
Is  but  a  dying  moon  to-night. 

But  when  I  dream  of  thee  apart 
I  would  the  dawn  might  hftky  heart. 
O  sun,  to  thee.  * 

TRYSTING    TIME 
I 

A  pretty  girl  at  time  o'  gloaming 
Hath  whispered  me  to  go  and  Let  her 
Without  the  city  gate. 

29 


so  TRYSTING   TIME 

I  love  her,  but  she  tarries  coming. 
Shall  I  return,  or  stay  and  greet  her  ? 
I  burn,  and  wait. 

n 

Truly  she  charmeth  all  beholders, 
'Tis  she  hath  given  me  this  jewel, 

The  jade  of  my  delight ; 
But  this  red  jewel- jade  that  smoulders, 
To  my  desire  doth  add  more  fuel, 
New  charms  to-night. 

m 

She  has  gathered  with  her  Hly  fingers 

A  Uly  fair  and  rare  to  see. 
Oh  !   sweeter  still  the  fragrance  lingers 

From  the  warm  hand  that  gave  it  me. 


THE    SOLDIER 

I  cHmbed  the  barren  mountain, 

And  my  gaze  swept  far  and  wide 
For  the  red-Ut  eaves  of  my  father's  home. 
And  I  fancied  that  he  sighed  : 
My  son  has  gone  for  a  soldier. 

For  a  soldier  night  and  day  ; 
But  my  son  is  wise,  and  may  yet  return, 
When  the  drums  have  died  away. 


THE  SOLDIER  31 

I  climbed  the  grass-clad  mountain, 

And  my  gaze  swept  far  and  wide 

For  the  rosy  lights  of  a  little  room, 

Where  I  thought  my  mother  sighed  : 

My  boy  has  gone  for  a  soldier, 

He  sleeps  not  day  and  night ; 
But  my  boy  is  wise,  and  may  yet  return, 
Though  the  dead  He  far  from  sight. 

I  climbed  the  topmost  summit, 

And  my  gaze  swept  far  and  wide 
For  the  garden  roof  where  my  brother  stood, 
And  I  fancied  that  he  sighed  : 
My  brother  serves  as  k  soldier 

With  his  comrades  night  and  day  ; 
But  my  brother  is  wise,  and  may  yet  return. 
Though  the  dead  He  far  away. 


CH'U    YUAN 

FoiTETH  Century,  b.o. 

A  LOYAL  minister  to  the  feudal  Prince  of  Ch'ii,  towards  tho 
close  of  the  Chou  dynasty.  His  master  having,  through 
disregard  of  his  counsel,  been  captured  by  the  Ch'in  State, 
Ch'ii  Yiian  sank  into  disfavour  with  his  sons,  and  retired 
to  the  hills,  where  he  wrote  his  famous  Li  Sao,  of  which  the 
following  is  one  of  the  songs.  He  eventually  drowned  him- 
self in  the  river  Mi-Lo,  and  in  spite  of  the  search  made  for 
his  body,  it  was  never  found.  The  Dragon-boat  Festival, 
held  on  the  fifth  day  of  the  fifth  moon,  was  founded  in  his 
honour, 

THE   LAND    OF   EXILE 

Methinks  there's  a  genius 
Roams  in  the  mountains, 
Girdled  with  ivy 
And  robed  in  wisteria, 
Lips  ever  smiling, 
Of  noble  demeanour, 
Driving  the  yellow  pard, 
Tiger-attended, 
Couched  in  a  chariot 
With  banners  of  cassia, 
32 


THE   LAND   OF   EXILE  33 

Cloaked  with  the  orchid, 

And  crowned  with  azaleas  ; 

CulUng  the  perfume 

Of  sweet  flowers,  he  leaves 

In  the  heart  a  dream-blossom, 

Memory  haunting. 

But  dark  is  the  forest 

Where  now  is  my  dweUing, 

Never  the  Hght  of  day 

Reaches  its  shadow. 

Thither  a  perilous 

Pathway  meanders. 

Lonely  I  stand 

On  the  loneher  hill-top, 

Cloudland  beneath  me 

And  cloudland  around  me. 

Softly  the  wind  bloweth, 

Softly  the  rain  falls, 

Joy  like  a  mist  blots 

The  thoughts  of  my  home  out ; 

There  none  would  honour  me, 

Fallen  from  honours, 

I  gather  the  larkspur 

Over  the  hillside, 

Blown  mid  the  chaos 

Of  boulder  and  bellbine  ; 

Hating  the  tyrant 

Who  made  me  an  outcast, 

Who  of  his  leisure 

Now  spares  me  no  moment : 

3 


34  CH'U  YUAN 

Drinking  the  mountain  spring, 

Shading  at  noon-day 

Under  the  cypress 

My  limbs  from  the  sun  glare. 

What  though  he  summon  me 

Back  to  his  palace, 

I  cannot  fall 

To  the  level  of  princes. 

Now  rolls  the  thunder  deep, 

Down  the  cloud  valley, 

And  the  gibbons  around  me 

Howl  in  the  long  night. 

The  gale  through  the  moaning  trees 

Fitfully  rushes. 

Lonely  and  sleepless 

I  think  of  my  thankless 

Master,  and  vainly  would 

Cradle  my  sorrow. 


WANG    SENG-JU 

Sixth  Centuby,  a.d. 

TEARS 

High  o'er  the  hill  the  moon  barque  steers. 

The  lantern  lights  depart. 
Dead  springs  are  stirring  in  my  heart ; 

And  there  are  tears.  .  .  . 
But  that  which  makes  my  grief  more  deep 
Is  that  you  know  not  when  I  weep. 


86 


CH'EN    TZU-ANG 

A.D.  656-698 

Famous  for  writing  that  kind  of  impromptu  descriptive 
verse  which  the  Chinese  call  "  Ying."  In  temperament  he 
was  less  Chinese  than  most  of  his  contemporaries.  His 
passionate  disposition  finally  brought  him  into  trouble  with 
the  magistrate  of  his  district,  who  had  him  cast  into  prison, 
where  he  died  at  the  age  of  forty- two. 

Whatever  his  outward  demeanour  may  have  been,  his 
poetry  gives  us  no  indication  of  it,  being  fuU  of  delicate 
mysticism,  almost  impossible  to  reproduce  in  the  English 
language.  For  this  reason  I  have  chosen  one  of  his  simpler 
poems  as  a  specimen. 

THE   LAST   EEVEL 

From  silver  lamps  a  thin  blue  smoke  is  streaming, 
And  golden  vases  'mid  the  feast  are  gleaming ; 
Now  sound  the  lutes  in  unison, 
Within  the  gates  our  lives  are  one. 
We'll  think  not  of  the  parting  ways 
As  long  as  dawn  delays. 

36 


THE   LAST  REVEL  37 

When  in  tall  trees  the  dying  moonbeams  quiver  : 
When  floods  of  fire  efface  the  Silver  River, 

Then  comes  the  hour  when  I  must  seek 
Lo-Yang  beyond  the  furthest  peak. 
But  the  warm  twihght  round  us  twain 
Will  never  rise  again. 


SUNG   CHIH-WEN 

DrSD   A.D.    710 

The  son  of  a  distinguished  general,  he  began  his  career  as 
attache  to  the  military  advisers  of  the  Emperor.  These 
advisers  were  always  drawn  from  the  Uterary  class,  and  their 
duties  appear  to  have  been  chiefly  administrative  and 
diplomatic.  Of  his  life,  the  less  said  the  better.  He  became 
involved  in  a  palace  intrigue,  and  only  saved  himself  by 
betraying  his  accomplices.  In  the  end  he  was  banished, 
and  finally  put  to  death  by  the  Emperor's  order.  It  is 
necessary,  however,  to  dissociate  the  man  from  his  poetry, 
and  Sung  Chih-Wen's  poetry  often  touches  a  high  level 
of  inspiration. 

THE   COURT   OF  DREAMS 

Rain  from  the  mountains  of  Ki-Sho 
Fled  swiftly  with  a  tearing  breeze ; 
The  sun  came  radiant  down  the  west, 
And  greener  blushed  the  valley  trees. 

T  entered  through  the  convent  gate : 
The  abbot  bade  me  welcome  there, 
And  in  the  court  of  silent  dreams 
I  lost  the  thread  of  worldly  care. 

38 


THE   COURT   OF  DREAMS  39 

That  holy  man  and  I  were  one, 
Beyond  the  bounds  that  words  can  trace  : 
The  very  flowers  were  still  as  we. 
I  heard  the  lark  that  hung  in  space, 
And  Truth  Eternal  flashed  on  me. 


KAO-SHIH 

CIRCA   A.D.    700 

Onb  of  the  most  fascinating  of  all  the  T'ang  poeta.  His 
life  was  one  long  series  of  romantic  adventure.  At  first,  a 
poor  youth  battling  with  adversity ;  then  the  lover  of  an 
actress,  whom  he  followed  through  the  provinces,  play- 
writing  for  the  strolling  troupe  to  which  she  was  attached ; 
the  next,  secretary  to  a  high  personage  engaged  in  a  mission 
to  Thibet ;  then  soldier,  and  finally  poet  of  renown,  acquiring 
with  his  latter  years  the  fortune  and  honours  denied  him 
in  his  youth. 

The  chief  characteristics  of  his  poetry  are  intense  con- 
centration, a  vivid  power  of  impressionism,  and  a  strong 
leaning  in  the  direction  of  the  occult.  Indeed,  one  of  his 
best-known  poems,  "  The  Return  to  the  Mountains,"  makes 
mention  of  the  projection  of  the  astral  body  through  space 
during  sleep.  Many  of  his  poems  leave  us  with  a  strange 
sense  of  horror  which  is  suggested  rather  than  revealed. 
It  is  always  some  combination  of  effects  which  produces 
this  result,  and  never  a  concrete  form. 

IMPRESSIONS   OF  A  TRAVELLER 

In  a  silent,  desolate  spot, 
In  the  night  stone-frozen  and  clear, 
The  wanderer's  hand  on  the  sail 
Is  gripped  by  the  fingers  of  fear. 

40 


IMPRESSIONS   OF   A  TRAVELLER    41 

He  looketh  afar  o'er  the  waves, 
Wind-ruffled  and  deep  and  green  ; 
■  And  the  mantle  of  Autumn  lies 
Over  wood  and  hill  and  ravine. 

'Tis  Autumn  ! — time  of  decay, 
And  the  dead  leaves'  'wildering  flight ; 
And  the  mantle  of  Autumn  hes 
On  the  wanderer's  soul  to-night  1 


DESOLATION 


There  was  a  King  of  Liang  ' — a  king  of  wondrous 

might — 
Who  kept  an  open  palace,  where  music  charmed 

the  night — 

n 

Since  he  was  Lord  of  Liang  a  thousand  years 

have  flown, 
And  of  the  towers  he  builded  yon  ruin  stands 

alone. 


>  strictly  speaking,  the  pronunciation  of  all  words  such  as 
Liang,  Kiang,  etc.,  is  nearer  one  syllable  than  two.  For 
purposes  of  euphony,  however,  without  which  the  lines  would 
be  harsh  and  unpoetical,  I  have  invariably  made  two  syllables 
of  them. 


42  KAO-SHIH 


in 

There    reigns    a    heavy    silence ;     gaunt    weeds 

through  windows  pry, 
And  down  the  streets  of  Liang  old  echoes,  wailing, 

die. 


MENG    HAO-JAN 

i..D.  689-740 

One  of  the  few  literary  men  of  the  day  whose  later  life  was 
devoted  entirely  to  literature.  He  was  the  inseparable  friend 
of  the  famous  Buddhist  poet  and  doctor,  Wang  Wei.  He 
spent  the  first  forty  years  of  his  life  in  acquiring  knowledge, 
but  having  failed  to  obtain  his  doctor's  degree,  he  returned 
to  the  quiet  hills  of  his  native  province  and  dedicated  his 
remaining  years  to  composition.  Most  of  his  poems,  other 
than  certain  political  satire,  which  drew  on  him  the  Emperor's 
wrath,  are  full  of  subtle  sadness  and  fragrant  regret,  reminding 
one  of  pot-pourri  in  some  deep  blue  porcelain  bowl. 

THE   LOST   ONE 

The  red  gleam  o'er  the  mountains 
Goes  wavering  from  sight, 

And  the  quiet  moon  enhances 
The  loveliness  of  night. 

I  open  wide  my  casement 

To  breathe  the  rain-cooled  air. 

And  mingle  with  the  moonlight 
The  dark  waves  of  my  hair. 

43 


44  MENG   HAO-JAN 

The  night  wind  tells  me  secrets 

Of  lotus  hhes  blue  ; 
And  hour  by  hour  the  willows 

Shake  down  the  chiming  dew# 

I  fain  would  take  the  zither, 
By  some  stray  fancy  led  ; 

But  there  are  none  to  hear  me, 
And  who  can  charm  the  dead  ? 


So  all  my  day-dreams  follow 
The  bird  that  leaves  the  nest ; 

And  in  the  night  I  gather 
The  lost  one  to  my  breast. 


A  FRIEND   EXPECTED 

Over  the  chain  of  giant  peaks 

The  great  red  sun  goes  down. 

And  in  the  stealthy  floods  of  night 
The  distant  vaUeys  drown. 

Yon  moon  that  cleaves  the  gloomy  pines 
Has  freshness  in  her  train ; 

Low  wind,  faint  stream,  and  waterfall 
Haunt  me  with  their  refrain. 


A  FRIEND   EXPECTED  45 

The  tired  woodman  seeks  his  cot 

That  twinkles  up  the  hill ; 
And  sleep  has  touched  the  wanderers 

That  sang  the  twiUght  still. 

To-night — ah !  beauty  of  to-night 

I  need  my  friend  to  praise, 
So  take  the  lute  to  lure  him  on 

Through  the  fragrant,  dew-lit  ways. 


CH'ANG    CH'IEN 

cmoA  A.D.  720 

Onb  of  the  great  philosopher-poets  of  the  Taoist  school. 
His  life  was  spent  far  from  the  court  and  away  from  the 
sounds  of  civil  warfare,  in  the  endeavour  to  set  himself  in 
harmony  with  the  universe — to  become,  in  fact,  like  an  iEolian 
harp  through  which  all  the  chords  of  nature  might  sweep  at 
will.  How  far  he  attained  the  end  desired  may  be  seen  in 
his  work,  which  is  penetrated  by  a  sense  of  profound  beauty, 
recalling  the  quiet  twilight  upon  the  moimtain-side,  which 
he  80  well  describes. 


A  NIGHT   ON  THE   MOUNTAIN 

I  sat  upon  the  mountain-side  and  watched 
A  tiny  barque  that  skimmed  across  the  lake, 
Drifting,  Hke  human  destiny  upon 
A  world  of  hidden  peril ;  then  she  sailed 
From  out  my  ken,  and  mingled  with  the  blue 
Of  skies  unfathomed,  while  the  great  round  sun 
Weakened  towards  the  waves. 

46 


A  NIGHT  ON   THE   MOUNTAIN       47 

The  whole  expanse 
Suddenly  in  the  half-light  of  the  dusk 
Glimmered  and  waned.     The  last  rays  of  the  sun 
Lit  but  the  tops  of  trees  and  mountain-peaks 
With  tarnished  glory  ;  and  the  water's  sheen, 
Once  blue  and  bright,  grew  lustreless,  and  soon 
A  welter  of  red  clouds  alone  betrayed 
The  passing  of  the  sun.     The  scattered  isles 
Uprose,  black-looming  o'er  the  tranquil  deeps, 
Where  the  reflected  heavens  wanly  showed 
A  Hngering  gleam.     Already  wood  and  hill 
Sank  in  obscurity.     The  river  marge 
Seemed  but  a  broken  line  to  failing  sight. 
•  •  •  •  ■ 

Night  is  at  hand  ;  the  night  winds  fret  afar, 
The  North  winds  moan.     The  waterfowl  are  gone 
To  cover  o'er  the  sand-dunes  ;  dawn  alone 
Shall  call  them  from  the  sedges.     Some  bright  star 

Mirrors  her  charms  upon  the  silver  shoal ; 
And  I  have  ta'en  the  lute,  my  only  friend  : 
The  vibrant  chords  beneath  my  fingers  blend ; 
They  sob  awhile,  then  as  they  shp  control 

Immortal  memories  awake,  and  the  dead  years 
Through  deathless  voices  answer  to  my  strings. 
Till  from  the  brink  of  Time's  untarnished  springs 
The  melting  night  recalls  me  with  her  tears. 


TS'EN-TS'AN 

OIROA   A.D.   750 

Of  his  life  we  know  little,  save  that  he  was  the  intimate 
friend  of  the  great  poet  Tu  Fu,  and  came  of  a  noble  family. 
He  was,  moreover,  Censor  imder  the  Emperor  Su  Tsung 
(a.d.  756-762),  and  rose  to  be  Governor  of  Chia-chou.  What 
remains  of  his  verse  mostly  takes  the  form  of  quatrains, 
yet  for  originahty  of  thought,  wealth  of  imagery  and  style, 
they  have  seldom  been  excelled.  He  was  a  master  of  metre, 
and  contributed  certain  modifications  to  the  laws  of  Chinese 
prosody  which  exist  to  the  present  day. 


A   DREAM   OF   SPRING 

Last  night   within   my   chamber's   gloom   some 

vague  light  breath  of  Spring 
Came  wandering  and  whispering,  and  bade  my 

soul  take  wing. 

A  hundred  moonlit  miles  away  the  Chiang  crept 

to  sea; 
0  keeper  of  my  heart,  I  came  by  Chiang's  ford 

to  thee. 

48 


A  DREAM   OF   SPRING  49 

It  lingered  but  a  moment's  space,  that  dream  of 

Spring,  and  died ; 
Yet  as  my  head  the  pillows  pressed,  my  soul  had 

found  thy  side. 

Oh  !  Chiang  Nan's  a  hundred  miles,  yet  in   a 

moment's  space 
I've  fiovm  away  to  Chiang  Nan  and  touched  a 

dreaming  face. 


TU    FU 

A.D.  712-770 

Ttj  Ftt,  whom  his  countrymen  called  the  God  of  Verse,  was 
bom  in  the  province  of  Hu-Kuang,  tind  this  was  his  portrait 
from  contemporaries : 

He  was  tall  and  slightly  built,  yet  robust  with  finely 
chiselled  features ;  his  manners  were  exquisite,  and  his 
appearance  distinguished.  He  came  of  a  hterary  family, 
and,  as  he  says  of  himself,  from  his  seventh  to  his  fortieth 
year  study  and  letters  occupied  all  his  available  time.  At 
the  age  of  twenty-seven  he  came  to  the  capital  with  his 
fame  in  front  of  him,  and  there  Li  Po  the  poet  and  Ts'en  Ts'an 
became  his  friends,  and  Ming  Huang  his  patron.  He  obtained 
a  post  at  Court  somewhat  similar  to  that  of  Master  of  Cere- 
monies in  our  own  Court.  Yet  the  poet  had  few  sympathies 
outside  the  artistic  life.  He  was  so  unworldly  and  so  little 
of  a  courtier  that  when  ihe  new  Emperor  Su  Tsung  returned- 
in  triumph  to  the  capital  and  appointed  him  Imperial  Censor, 
he  fulfilled  his  new  duties  by  telling  his  majesty  the  whole 
unpalatable  truth  in  a  manner  strangely  free  from  ornamental 
apology,  and  was  promptly  rewarded  with  the  exile  of  a  pro- 
vincial governorship.  But  Tu  Fu  was  no  man  of  affairs,  and 
knew  it.  On  the  day  of  his  pubhc  installation  he  took  off 
his  insignia  of  office  before  the  astonished  notables,  and, 
laying  them  one  by  one  on  the  table,  made  them  a  profound 
reverence,  and  quietly  withdrew. 

60 


TU   FU  51 

Like  his  friend  Li  Po,  he  became  a  homeless  wanderer, 
but,  unlike  him,  he  concealed  his  brilliant  name,  obtaining 
food  and  patronage  for  his  delightful  nameless  self  alone, 
and  not  for  his  reputation's  sake.  Finally,  he  was  discovered 
by  the  military  governor  of  the  province  of  Ssuch'uan,  who 
applied  on  his  behalf  for  the  post  of  Eestorer  of  Ancient 
Monuments  in  the  district,  the  one  congenial  appointment 
of  his  life.  For  six  years  he  kept  his  post ;  then  trouble  in 
the  shape  of  rebel  hordes  burst  once  more  upon  the  province, 
and  again  he  became  an  exile.  The  last  act  of  this  eventful 
life  took  place  in  his  native  district :  some  local  mandarin 
gave  a  great  banquet  in  honour  of  the  distinguished  poet, 
whom  he  had  rescued,  half  drowned  and  famishing,  from  the 
ruined  shrine  by  the  shore  where  the  waters  had  cast  him 
up.  The  wine-cup  brimmed  again  and  again,  food  was 
piled  up  in  front  of  the  honoured  guest,  and  the  attendant 
who  waited  was  Death.  The  end  was  swift,  sudden,  and 
pitiful.     The  guest  died  from  the  banquet  of  his  rescuer. 

Of  all  poets  Tu  Fu  is  the  first  in  craftsmanship.  It  is 
interesting  to  add  that  he  was  a  painter  as  well,  and  the 
friend  of  painters,  notably  the  soldier-artist,  Kaang-Tu, 
to  whom  he  dedicates  a  poem.  Possibly  it  is  to  this  faculty 
that  he  owes  his  superb  technique.  He  seeks  after  simplicity 
and  its  effects  as  a  diver  seeks  for  sunken  gold.  In  his  poem 
called  "  The  Little  Rain,"  which  I  have  (perhaps  somewhat 
rashly)  attempted,  there  is  aU  the  graciousness  of  fine  rain 
falling  upon  sullen  furrows,  which  charms  the  world  into 
spring.  "  The  Recruiting  Sergeant  "  has  the  touch  of  grim 
desolation,  which  belongs  inevitably  to  a  country  plundered 
of  its  men  and  swept  with  the  ruinous  winds  of  rebellion. 

Li  Po  gives  us  Watteau-like  pictures  of  life  in  Ch'ang-an 
before  the  flight  of  the  Emperor.  The  yoimger  poet  paints, 
with  the  brush  of  Verestchagin,  the  realism  and  horrora 
of  civil  war.  In  most  of  Tu  Fu's  work  there  is  an  under- 
lying sadness  which  appears  continually,  sometimes  in 
the  vein  that  runs  throu^out  the  poem,  sometimes 
at  the  conclusion,  and  often  at  the  summing  up  of  all 


62  TU  FU 

things.  Other  poets  have  it,  some  more,  some  less,  with 
the  exception  of  those  who  belong  to  the  purely  Taoist 
school.  The  reason  is  that  the  Chinese  poet  is  haunted. 
He  is  haunted  by  the  vast  shadow  of  a  past  without  his- 
torians— a  past  that  is  legendary,  unmapped  and  imbounded, 
and  yields,  therefore,  Golcondas  and  golden  lands  innumerable 
to  its  bold  adventurers.  He  is  haimted  from  out  the  crumbled 
palaces  of  vanished  kings,  where  "  in  the  form  of  blue  flames 
one  sees  spirits  moving  through  each  dark  recess."  He 
is  haunted  by  the  traditional  voices  of  the  old  masters  of 
his  craft,  and  lastly,  more  than  all,  by  the  dead  women  and 
men  of  his  race,  the  ancestors  that  coimt  in  the  making  of 
his  composite  soul  and  have  their  silent  say  in  every  action, 
thought,  and  impulse  of  his  hfe. 


THE  LITTLE   RAIN 

Oh  !  she  is  good,  the  little  rain  !  and  well  she 
knows  our  need 

Who  Cometh  in  the  time  of  spring  to  aid  the  sun- 
drawn  seed ; 

She  wanders  with  a  friendly  wind  through  silent 
nights  unseen, 

The  furrows  feel  her  happy  tears,  and  lo  !  the  land 
is  green. 

Last  night  cloud-shadows  gloomed  the  path  that 

winds  to  my  abode, 
And  the  torches   of  the  river-boats  like  angry 

meteors  glowed. 


THE   LITTLE   RAIN  63 

To-day  fresh  colours  break  the  soil,  and  butterflies 

take  wing 
Down  broidered  lawns  all  bright  with  pearls  in 

the  garden  of  the  King. 


A   NIGHT   OP   SONG 

The  wind  scarce  flutters  through  the  leaves, 
The  young  moon  hath  already  gone, 
And  kind  and  cool  the  dews  descend  : 
The  lute-strings  wake  for  night  alone. 

In  shadow  lapse  the  twinkling  streams. 
The  lilied  marge  their  waves  caress  ; 
And  the  sheer  constellations  sway 
O'er  soundless  gulfs  of  nothingness. 

What  cadence  charms  the  poet's  ear  ! 
What  fire-fly  fancies  round  him  swarm  ! 
He  dreads  the  lantern  lights  may  fail 
Long  ere  his  thoughts  have  taken  form. 

Now  gallants  tap  their  two-edged  swords. 
And  pride  and  passion  swell  amain  ; 
Like  red  stars  flashing  through  the  night 
The  circhng  wine-cups  brim  again. 


54  TU   FU 

There  steals  the  old  sad  air  of  Ou — 
Each  calls  his  latest  song  to  mind ; 
Then  white  sails  taper  down  the  stream, 
While  lingering  thoughts  still  look  behind. 


THE   RECRUITING   SERGEANT 

At  sunset  in  the  village  of  Che-Kao  * 

I  sought  for  shelter  ;  on  my  heels  there  trod 

A  grim  recruiting  sergeant,  of  the  kind 

That  seize  their  prey  by  night.     A  poor  old  man 

Saw — scaled   the  wall,  and  vanished.     Through 

the  gate 
An  old  bent  woman  hobbled,  and  she  marched 
A  pace  before  him.     Loudly  in  his  wrath 
The  grim  recruiter  stormed  ;  and  bitterly 
She  answered  :   "  Listen  to  the  voice  of  her 
Who  drags  before  you.     Once  I  had  three  sons — 
Three  in  the  Emperor's  camp.     A  letter  came 
From  one,  and — there  was  one ;  the  others  fell 
In  the  same  battle — he  alone  was  left, 
Scarce  able  from  the  iron  grasp  of  Death 
To  tear  his  miserable  Ufe. 

Alas 
My  two  dead  boys  !  for  ever  and  for  aye 


1  All  words  ending  in  ao  are  pronounced  ow,  ae  in  English 
vow,  allow,  etc. 


THE  RECRUITING   SERGEANT       66 

Death  holds  them.     In  our  wretched  hut  remains 
The  last  of  all  the  men — a  little  child, 
Still  at  his  mother's  breast.     She  cannot  flee. 
Since  her  few  tatters  scarce  suffice  to  clothe 
Her  shrunken  hmbs. 

My  years  are  nearly  done, 
My  strength  is  well-nigh  spent ;  yet  I  wilf  go 
Readily  to  the  camping-ground.     Perchance 
I  may  be  useful  for  some  humble  task, 
To  cook  the  rice  or  stir  the  morning  meal." 

Night  slipped  away.  The  clamour  and  the  cries 
Died  down  ;  but  there  was  weeping  and  the  sound 
Of  stifled  moans  around  me. 

At  the  break 
Of  dawn  I  hurried  on  my  road,  and  left 
None  but  an  old  and  broken  man  behind. 


CHANTS    OF   AUTUMN 

Shorn  by  the  frost  with  crystal  blade, 
The  dry  leaves,  scattered,  fall  at  last ; 
Among  the  valleys  of  Wu  Chan 
Cold  winds  of  death  go  waihng  past. 
Tumultuous  waves  of  the  great  river  rise 

And  seem  to  storm  the  skies. 
While  snow-bright  peak  and  prairie  mist  combine, 
And  greyness  softens  the  harsh  mountain  Hne. 


56  TU   FU 

Clirysanthemums  unfurl  to-day, 
To-morrow  the  last  flowers  are  blown. 
I  am  the  barque  that  chains  delay  : 
My  homeward  thoughts  must  sail  alone. 

From   house  to   house  warm  winter  robes   are 
spread, 

And  through  the  pine-woods  red 

Floats  up   the  sound  of  the  washerman's  bat 
who  phes 

His  hurried  task  ere  the  brief  noon  wanes  and  dies. 


LI    PO 

A.D,  702-762 

Thb  most  famous  name  in  Chinese  literature.  Bom  in  the 
province  of  Ssuch'uan,  Li  Po  obtained  his  doctor's  degree 
at  the  age  of  twenty,  and  was  akeady  known  as  a  brilliant, 
inspired  poet  before  Ming  Huang  became  his  patron  in  the 
capital.  A  suite  of  rooms  overlooking  the  beautiful  gardens 
of  T'eng-hsiang  T'ing,  where  the  Emperor  retired  after  the 
routine  of  the  day,  was  assigned  to  him.  Here  the  poet 
improvised,  whilst  Ming  Huang  himself  wrote  down  the 
verses  that  he  afterwards  set  to  music,  and  accompanied 
while  the  poet  sang.  But  Li  Po,  with  all  his  enthusiasm  for 
his  patron  and  the  delights  of  the  garden-life,  was  Uttle  of 
a  courtier.  When  Ming  Huang  bade  the  masterful  eunuch 
Kao  Li-shih  unlace  the  poet's  boots,  he  gave  him  a  relentless 
enemy  whose  malice  pursued  him,  until  at  length  he  was  glad 
to  beg  leave  to  retire  from  the  court,  where  he  was  never  at 
ease  and  to  which  he  never  returned.  Troubadour-like, 
he  wandered  through  the  provinces,  the  guest  of  mandarin 
and  local  governor,  the  star  of  the  drinking-tavems,  the 
delight  and  embarrassment  of  all  his  hosts.  At  length  a 
friend  of  former  days,  to  whom  he  had  attached  himself, 
unhappily  involved  him  in  the  famous  rebellion  of  An  Lu-shan. 
The  poet  was  seized  and  thrown  into  prison.  Yet  prison 
doors  were  ill  warders  of  his  fame,  and  letters  of  recall 
followed  closely  upon  pardon  ;  but  death  overtook  the  exile 

57 


68  LI  PO 

before  he  could  reach  the  capital,  and  at  the  age  of  sixty 
his  wanderings  came  to  an  end. 

Li  Po  was  a  poet  with  a  sword  by  his  side.  He  would 
have  ruffled  bravely  with  our  Elizabethans,  and  for  a  Chinese 
is  strangely  warlike  in  sentiment.  How  he  loves  the  bravo 
of  Chao  with  his  sabre  from  the  Chinese  Sheffield  of  Wu, 
*'  with  the  surface  smooth  as  ice  and  dazzling  as  snow,  with 
his  saddle  broidered  with  silver  upon  his  white  steed  ;  who 
when  he  passes,  swift  as  the  wind,  may  be  said  to  resemble 
a  shooting  star !  "  He  compares  the  frontiersman,  who 
has  never  so  much  as  opened  a  book  in  all  his  Hfe,  yet  knows 
how  to  foUow  in  the  chase,  and  is  skilful,  strong,  and  hardy, 
with  the  men  of  his  own  profession.  "  From  these  intrepid 
wanderers  how  different  our  hterary  men  who  grow  grey 
over  their  books  behind  a  curtained  window." 

It  is  harder  to  write  of  Li  Po  than  of  any  other  Chinese 
poet.  Po  Chu-i  has  his  own  distinctive  feeHng  for  romance, 
Tu  Fu  his  miniite  literary  craftsmanship,  Ssu-K'ung  T'u  the 
dehcate  aroma  of  suggestive  mysticism ;  but  Li  Po  is  many- 
sided,  and  has  perhaps  more  of  the  world-spirit  than  all 
of  them.  We  can  imagine  this  bold,  careless,  impulsive 
artist,  with  his  moments  of  great  exaltation  and  alternate 
depression,  a  kind  of  Chinese  Paul  Verlaine,  with  his  sensitive 
mind  of  a  child,  always  recording  impressions  as  they  come. 
T'ai  Ch&n  the  beautiful  and  the  grim  frontiersman  are  alike 
faithfully  portrayed.  He  lives  for  the  moment,  and  the 
moment  is  often  wine-flushed  like  the  rosy  glow  of  dawn, 
or  grey  and  wan  as  the  twihght  of  a  hopeless  day. 


TO   THE    CITY   OF   NAN-KESTG 

Thou  that  hast  seen  six  kingdoms  pass  away, 
Accept  my  song  and  these  three  cups  I  drain  ! 
There  may  be  fairer  gardens  hght  the  plain  ; 
Thine  are  the  dim  blue  hills  more  fair  than  they. 


TO  THE   CITY   OF  NAN-KING        69 

Here  Kings  of  Wu  were  crowned  and  overthrown, 
Where  peaceful  grass  along  the  ruin  wins  ; 
Here — was  it  yesterday  ? — the  royal  Tsins 
Called  down  the  dreams  of  sunset  into  stone. 

One  end  awaits  for  all  that  mortal  be  ; 
Pride  and  despair  shall  find  a  common  grave  : 
The  Yang-tse-kiang  renders  wave  and  wave 
To  mingle  with  the  abysms  of  the  sea. 


MEMORIES  WITH  THE   DUSK   RETURN 

The  yellow  dusk  winds  round  the  city  wall : 
The  crows  are  drawn  to  nest, 
Silently  down  the  west 

They  hasten  home,  and  from  the  branches  call. 

A  woman  sits  and  weaves  with  fingers  deft 
Her  story  of  the  flower-ht  stream, 
Threading  the  jasper  gauze  in  dream. 

Till  like  faint  smoke  it  dies  ;  and  she,  bereft, 
Recalls  the  parting  words  that  died 

Under  the  casement  some  far  eventide. 
And  stays  the  disappointed  loom. 
While  from  the  Httle  lonely  room 
Into  the  lonely  night  she  peers, 

And,  like  the  rain,  unheeded  fall  her  tears. 


60  LI   PO 


AN   emperor's  love 

In  all  the  clouds  he  sees  her  light  robes  trail, 
And  roses  seem  beholden  to  her  face  ; 
O'er  scented  balustrade  the  scented  gale 
Blows  warm  from  Spring,  and  dew-drops  form 

apace. 
Her  outline  on  the  mountain  he  can  trace, 
Now  leans  she  from  the  tower  in  moonlight  pale. 

A   flower-girt  branch   grows   sweeter    from    the 

dew. 
The  spirit  of  snow  and  rain  unheeded  calls. 
Who  wakes  to  memory  in  these  palace  walls  ? 
Fei-yen  !  * — but  in  the  robes  an  Empress  knew. 

The  most  renowned  of  blossoms,  most  divine 
Of  those  whose  conquering  glances  overthrow 
Cities  and  kingdoms,  for  his  sake  combine 
And  win  the  ready  smiles  that  ever  flow 
From  royal  Hps.     What  matter  if  the  snow 
Blot  out  the  garden  ?     She  shall  still  recline 
Upon  the  scented  balustrade  and  glow 
With  spring  that  thrills  her  warm  blood  into 
wine. 

^  A  delicate  compliment  to  the  beautiful  T'ai-Ch§n,  of 
which  the  meaning  is  that,  as  the  Emperor  Yang-ti  of 
the  Sui  dynasty  elevated  his  mistress  Fei-yen  to  share  with 
him  the  throne,  so  shall  T'ai-Chen  become  the  Empress  of 
Ming  Huang. 


ON  THE   BANKS   OF  JO-YEH        61 


ON   THE   BANKS   OF  JO-EH 

They  gather  liKes  down  the  stream, 
A  net  of  willows  drooping  low 
Hides  boat  from  boat ;   and  to  and  fro 
Sweet  whispered  confidences  seem 
'Mid  laughing  trills  to  flow. 

In  the  green  deeps  a  shaft  of  gold 
Limns  their  elaborate  attire  ; 
Through  silken  sleeves  the  winds  aspire, 
Embalmed,  to  stray,  and,  growing  bold, 
Swell  them  to  their  desire. 

But  who  are  these,  the  cavaHers 
That  gleam  along  the  river-side  ? 
By  three,  by  five  they  prance  with  pride 
Beyond  the  willow-line  that  sheers 
Over  the  trellised  tide. 

A  charger  neighs  ;  one  turns  to  start, 
Crushing  the  kingcups  as  he  flies. 
And  one  pale  maiden  vainly  tries 
To  hush  the  tumult  in  her  heart 
And  veil  the  secret  of  her  eyes. 


THOUGHTS   IN   A   TRANQUIL  NIGHT 

Athwart  the  bed 
I  watch  the  moonbeams  cast  a  trail 
So  bright,  so  cold,  so  frail. 


62  LI   PO 

That  for  a  space  it  gleams 
Like  hoar-frost  on  the  margin  of  my  dreams. 

I  raise  my  head, — 
The  splendid  moon  I  see  : 

Then  droop  my  head, 
And  sink  to  dreams  of  thee — 
My  Fatherland,  of  thee  ! 


THE   GUILD   OF  GOOD-FELLOWSHIP 

The  universe  is  but  a  tenement 
Of  all  things  visible.     Darkness  and  day 
The  passing  guests  of  Time.     Life  slips  away, 
A  dream  of  Uttle  joy  and  mean  content. 

Ah !  wise  the  old  philosophers  who  sought 
To  lengthen  their  long  sunsets  among  flowers, 
By  steahng  the  young  night's  unsullied  hours 
And  the  dim  moments  with  sweet  burdens  fraught. 

And  now  Spring  beckons  me  with  verdant  hand, 
And  Nature's  wealth  of  eloquence  doth  win 
Forth  to  the  fragrant-bowered  nectarine. 
Where  my  dear  friends  abide,  a  careless  band. 

There  meet  my  gentle,  matchless  brothers,  there 
I  come,  the  obscure  poet,  all  unfit 
To  wear  the  radiant  jewellery  of  wit. 
And  in  their  golden  presence  cloud  the  air. 


THE  GUILD  OF  GOOD-FELLOWSHIP    63 

And  while  the  thrill  of  meeting  lingers,  soon 
As  the  first  courtly  words,  the  feast  is  spread. 
While,  couched  on  flowers  'mid  wine-cups  flashing 

red, 
We  drink  deep  draughts  unto  The  Lady  Moon. 

Then  as  without  the  touch  of  verse  divine 
There  is  no  outlet  for  the  pent-up  soul, 
'Twas  ruled  that  he  who  quaffed  no  fancy's  bowl 
Should  drain  the   "  Golden  Valley  "  »    cups  of 
wine. 


UNDER   THE   MOON 

Under  the  crescent  moon's  faint  glow 
The  washerman's  bat  resounds  afar. 
And  the  autumn  breeze  sighs  tenderly. 
But  my  heart  has  gone  to  the  Tartar  war. 
To  bleak  Kansuh  and  the  steppes  of  snow, 
Calling  my  husband  back  to  me. 


DRIFTING 

We  cannot  keep  the  gold  of  yesterday  ; 
To-day's  dun  clouds  we  cannot  roll  away. 

*  i.e.  drink  three  cupa  of  wine,  the  "  Golden  Valley  " 
being  the  name  of  a  garden,  the  owner  of  which  enforced  this 
penalty  among  his  boon  companions  (Oema  of  Chinese 
Literature,  p.  113). 


64  LI   PO 

Now  the  long,  wailing  flight  of  geese  brings  autumn 

in  its  train, 
So  to  the  view-tower  cup  in  hand  to  fill  and  drink 

again, 

And   dream   of  the  great  singers  of   the 

past, 
Their  fadeless  lines  of  fire  and  beauty  cast. 
I  too  have  felt  the  wild-bird  thrill  of  song  behind 

the  bars, 
But  these  have   brushed  the  world  aside  and 
ivalked  amid  the  stars. 

In  vain  we  cleave  the  torrent's  thread  with 

steel, 
In  vain  we  drink  to  drown  the  grief  we 
feel ; 
When  man's  desire  with  fate  doth  war  this,  this 

avails  alone — 
To  hoist  the  sail  and  let  the  gale  and  the  waters 
bear  us  on. 


WANG    CH'ANG-LING 

OIBCA    A.D.    750 

This  poet  came  from  the  district  of  Chiang-ning  to  the  capital, 
where  he  obtained  his  doctor's  degree  and  distinguished 
himself  as  a  man  of  letters.  For  some  time  he  filled  a  minor 
post,  but  was  eventually  disgraced  and  exiled  to  the  province 
of  Hunan.  When  the  rebellion  of  An  Lu-shan  broke  out,  he 
returned  to  his  native  place,  where  he  was  cruelly  murdered 
by  the  censor  Lu  Ch'in-hsiao.  (See  Hervey  Saint-Denys, 
Poesies  des  Thang,  p.  224;  Giles,  Biog.  Diet.  p.  8087.) 


THE    SONO   OF   THE   NENUPHARS 

Leaves  of  the  Nenuphars  and  silken  skirts  the 
same  pale  green, 

On  flower  and  laughing  face  alike  the  same  rose- 
tints  are  seen ; 

Like  some  blurred  tapestry  they  blend  within 
the  lake  displayed  : 

You  cannot  part  the  leaves  from  silk,  the  Uly 
from  the  maid. 

Only  when  sudden  voices  swell 
Do  maidens  of  their  presence  tell. 

66  6 


66  WANG   CH'ANG-LING 

Here  long  ago  the  girls  of  Su,  the  darlings  of  the 

King, 
Dabbled  their  shining  skirts  with  dew  from  the 

gracious  blooms  of  Spring. 
When  to  the  lake's  sun-dimpled  marge  the  bright 

procession  wends, 
The  languid  lilies  raise  their  heads  as  though  to 

greet  their  friends  ; 

When  down  the  river-banks  they  roam, 
The  white  moon-lady  leads  them  home. 


TEARS   IN   THE    SPRING 

Clad  in  blue  silk  and  bright  embroidery 
At  the  first  call  of  Spring  the  fair  young  bride, 
On  whom  as  yet  Sorrow  has  laid  no  scar, 
Climbs  the  Kingfisher's  Tower,     Suddenly 
She  sees  the  bloom  of  willows  far  and  wide, 
And  grieves  for  him  she  lent  to  fame  and  war. 


CHANG  CHIH-HO 

CIRCA   A..D.    750 

A  Taoist  philosopher  who  lived  in  the  time  of  the  Emperor 
Su  Tsung,  and  held  office  under  him.  For  some  offence  he 
was  exiled,  and  the  royal  pardon  found  him  far  too  occupied 
to  dream  of  return. 

Like  so  many  of  the  same  philosophy,  he  became  a  lonely 
wanderer,  calling  himself  the  "Old  Fisherman  of  the  Miste 
and  Waters."  Professor  Giles  {Chinese  Literature,  p.  191) 
adds  the  curious  statement  that  "  he  spent  his  time  in  anghng, 
but  used  no  bait,  his  object  not  being  to  catch  fish." 


A   WORLD    ArART 

The  Lady  Moon  is  my  lover, 

My  friends  are  the  oceans  four, 
The  heavens  have  roofed  me  over, 

And  the  dawn  is  my  golden  doon 
I  would  hefer  follow  the  condor 

Or  the  seagull,  soaring  from  ken, 
Than  bury  my  godhead  yonder 

In  the  dust  of  the  whirl  of  men. 


67 


CHANG    JO-HU 

OIBCA   A.D.    800 

When  heaven  reveals  her  primal  stainless  blue, 
Alone  within  the  firmament  there  burns 
The  tiny  torch  of  dusk.     What  startled  eyes 
Uplifted  from  the  restless  stream  first  met 
The  full  round  glory  of  the  moon !     Yon  orb 
That  pales  upon  the  flood  of  broad  Chiang, 
When  did  she  first  through  twilight  mists  unveil 
Her  wonders  to  the  world  ? 

Men  come  and  go  ; 
New  generations  hunger  at  the  heels 
Of  those  that  yield  possession.     Still  the  moon 
Fulfils  her  phases.     While  the  tides  of  time 
Eat  out  the  rocks  of  empire,  and  the  stars 
Of  human  destiny  adown  the  void 
Go  guttering  to  their  doom,  she  changeless  sweeps 
Through  all  her  times  and  destinies.     Alas  ! 
The  httle  lives  that  swarmed  beneath  the  moon, 
I  cannot  count  them.     This  alone  I  know — 
That,  wave  on  wave,  the  Chiang  seeks  the  sea, 
And  not  a  wave  returns. 

68 


CHANG  JO-HXr  69 

One  small  white  cloud 
Threading  the  vasty  vault  of  heaven  recalls 
My  heart  unto  her  loneliness.     I  sail 
Between  two  banks,  where  heavy  boughs  enlace, 
Whose  verdurous  luxuriance  wakes  once  more 
My  many  griefs.     None  know  me  as  I  am, 
Steering  to  strange  adventure.     None  may  tell 
If,  steeped  in  the  same  moonlight,  lies  afar 
Some  dim  pavilion  where  my  lady  dreams 
Of  me.     Ah,  happy  moon  !  low  lingering  moon  I 
That  with  soft  touch  now  brightens  into  jade 
Lintel  and  door,  and  when  she  lifts  the  bhnd 
Floats   through   the   darkened   chamber   of   her 

sleep  ; 
While  leagues  away  my  love-winged  messages 
Go  flocking  home  ;  and  though  they  mingle  not. 
Our  thoughts  seek  one  another.     In  the  lilt 
Of  winds  I  hear  her  whisper  :  "  Oh  that  I 
Might  melt  into  the  moonbeams,  and  with  them 
Leap  through  the  void,  and  shed  myself  with  them 
Upon  my  lover."     Slow  the  night  creeps  on. 
Sleep  harbours  in  the  little  room.     She  dreams — 
Dreams  of  a  fall  o'  flowers.     Alas  !  young  Spring 
Lies  on  the  threshold  of  maternity. 
And  still  he  comes  not.     Still  the  flowing  stream 
Sweeps  on,  but  the  swift  torrents  of  green  hours 
Are  licked  into  the  brazen  skies  between 
Their    widening    banks.     The    great    dehberate 

moon 
Now  leans  toward  the  last  resort  of  night, 


70  CHANG  JO-HU 

Gloom  of  the  western  waves.     She  dips  her  rim, 
She  sinks,  she  founders  in  the  mist ;  and  still 
The  stream  flows  on,  and  to  the  insatiate  sea 
Hurries  her  white-wave  flocks  innumerable 
In  never-ending  tale.     On  such  a  night 
How  many  tireless  travellers  may  attain 
The  happy  goal  of  their  desire  !     So  dreams 
My  lady  till  the  moon  goes  down,  and  lo ! 
A  rush  of  troubled  waters  floods  her  soul, 
While  black  forebodings  rise  from  deeps  unknown 
And  the  cold  trail  of  fear  creeps  round  her  heart. 


T'UNG    HAN-CHING 

OIKCA    A.D.    800 
THE    CELESTIAL   WEAVER 

A.  THING  of  stone  beside  Lake  Kouen-ming 
Has  for  a  thousand  autumns  borne  the  name 
Of  the  Celestial  Weaver.     Like  that  star 
She  shines  above  the  waters,  wondering 
At  her  pale  loveliness.     Unnumbered  waves 
Have   broidered  with    green    moss    the    marble 

folds 
About  her  feet.     Toiling  eternally 
They  knock  the  stone,  like  tireless  shuttles  plied 
Upon  a  sounding  loom. 

Her  pearly  locks 
Resemble  snow-coils  on  the  mountain  top  ; 
Her  eyebrows  arch — the  crescent  moon.     A  smile 
Lies  in  the  opened  hly  of  her  face  ; 
And,   since  she   breathes   not,  being  stone,  the 

birds 

71 


72  T'UNG   HAN-CHING       • 

Light  on  her  shoulders,  flutter  without  fear 
At  her  still  breast.     Immovable  she  stands 
Before  the  shining  mirror  of  her  charms 
And,  gazing  on  their  beauty,  lets  the  years 
SUp  into  centuries  past  her.  ,  ,  , 


PO    CHU-I 

A.D.  772-846 

Sbvkntebn  years  old  and  already  a  doctor  of  letters,  a  great 
future  was  before  him.  The  life  of  such  a  man  would  seem 
to  be  one  sure  progress  from  honour  to  honour.  Yet  it  ia 
to  some  petty  exile,  some  temporary  withdrawal  of  imperial 
favour,  that  we  owe  "  The  Lute  Girl,"  perhaps  the  most 
delicate  piece  of  work  that  has  survived  the  age  of  the  golden 
T'angs.  Certainly  the  music  is  the  most  haunting,  suggestive 
of  many-coloured  moods,  with  an  undertone  of  sadness,  and 
that  motive  of  sympathy  between  the  artist-exiles  of  the 
universe  which  calls  the  song  from  the  singer  and  tears  from 
the  heart  of  the  man.  So  exile  brought  its  consolations,  the 
voice  and  presence  of  "  The  Lute  Girl,"  and  the  eight  nameless 
poets  who  became  with  Po  Chii-i  the  literary  communists 
of  Haiang-shan.  In  China  it  has  always  been  possible  for 
the  artist  to  live  away  from  the  capital.  Provincial  governor 
and  high  ofTicial  send  for  him  ;  all  compete  for  the  honour 
of  his  presence.  Respect,  which  is  the  first  word  of  Chinese 
wisdom  according  to  Confucius,  is  paid  to  him.  In  provincial 
Europe  his  very  presence  would  be  unknoAvn  unless  he  beat 
his  wife  on  the  high-road  or  stole  a  neighbour's  pig.  But 
his  Celestial  Majesty  hears  of  the  simple  life  at  Hsiang-shan 
and  becomes  jealous  for  his  servant.  The  burden  of  ruhng 
must  once  more  be  laid  on  not  too  willing  shoulders.  Po 
Chii-i  is  recalled  and  promoted  from  province  to  province, 

73 


74  PO   CHU-I  ^ 

till  eventually,  five  years  before  hds  death,  he  is  made  President 
of  the  Board  of  War.  Two  short  poems  here  rendered — 
namely,  "  Peaceful  Old  Age  "  and  "  The  Penalties  of  Rank  " — 
give  us  a  ghmpse  of  the  poet  in  his  old  age,  conscious  of 
decaying  powers,  glad  to  be  quit  cf  office,  and  waiting  with 
subhme  faith  in  his  Taoist  principles  to  be  "one  with  the 
pulsings  of  Eternity." 

Po  Chii-i  is  almost  nearer  to  the  ^^'estem  idea  of  a  poet 
than  any  other  Chinese  writer.  He  was  fortunate  enough 
to  be  bom  when  the  great  love-tragedy  of  Ming  Huang  and 
T'ai  Chen  was  stUl  fresh  in  the  minds  of  men.  He  had  the 
right  perspective,  being  not  too  near  and  yet  able  to  see 
clearly.  He  had,  moreover,  the  feeling  for  romance  which 
is  so  ill-defined  in  other  poets  of  his  country,  though  strongly 
evident  in  Chinese  legend  and  story.  He  is  an  example  of 
that  higher  patriotism  rarely  met  with  in  Chinese  official 
life  which  recognises  a  duty  to  the  Emperor  as  Father  of 
the  national  family — a  duty  too  often  forgotten  in  the  obli- 
gation to  the  clan  and  the  desire  to  use  power  for  personal 
advantage.  Passionately  devoted  to  hterature,  he  might, 
like  Li  i  o  and  Tu  Fu,  have  set  down  the  seals  of  office  and 
lived  for  art  alone  by  the  mountain-side  of  his  beloved  Hsiang- 
shan.  But  no  one  knew  better  than  Po  Chii-i  that  from 
him  that  hath  much,  much  shall  be  expected.  The  poet 
ennobled  political  life,  the  broader  outlook  of  affairs  enriched 
his  poetry  and  humanised  it. 

And  when  some  short  hoUday  brought  him  across  the 
frontier,  and  the  sunlight,  breaking  out  after  a  noon  of  rain 
over  the  dappled  valleys  of  China,  called  him  home,  who 
shall  blame  him  for  lingering  awhile  amid  his  forest  dreams 
with  his  fishing  and  the  chase. 

Yet  solitude  and  the  picturesque  cannot  hold  him  for 
long,  nor  even  the  ardours  of  the  chase.  Po  Chii-i  is  above 
all  the  poet  of  human  love  and  sorrow,  and  beyond  all  the 
consoler.  Those  who  profess  to  find  pessimism  in  the  Chinese 
character  must  leave  him  alone.  At  the  end  of  the  great 
tragedy  of  "  The  Never-ending  Wrong  "  a  whispered  message 


THE   LUTE  GIRL  75 

of  hope  is  borne  to  the  lonely  soul  beating  against  the  confines 
of  the  visible  world : —  ,    „       ,      ,,  *  t.     _* 

"  Tell  my  lord,"  she  murmured,  "  to  be  firm  of  heart  as 
this  gold  and  enamel ;  then  in  heaven  or  earth  below  we 
twain  may  meet  once  more." 

It  is  tlic  doctrine  of  eternal  constancy,  so  dimly  understood 
in  the  Western  world,  which  bids  the  young  wife  immolate 
herself  on  her  husband's  tomb  rather  than  marry  again,  and 
makes  the  whole  world  seem  too  small  for  the  stricken 
Emperor  with  all  the  youth  and  beauty  of  China  to  command. 


THE   LUTE   GIRL 

The  following  is  Po  Chu-i's  own  preface  to  his  poem  :— 

When  after  ten  years  of  regular  service,  I  was  wrongfully 
dismissed  from  the  Prefecture  of  the  Nine  Rivers  and  the 
Mastership  of  the  Horse,  in  the  bright  autumn  of  the  year  1 
was  sent  away  to  Ko-pen  Creek's  mouth.  It  was  there  that 
I  heard,  seated  in  my  boat  at  midnight,  the  faint  tones  of  a  lute. 
It  seemed  as  though  I  was  listening  to  the  tones  of  the  gongs 
in  the  Palace  of  the  CafAtal.  On  asking  an  old  man,  I  learrU 
that  it  was  the  performance  of  a  woman  who  for  many  years 
had  cultivated  the  two  talents  of  music  and  singing  to  good 
effect  In  the  course  of  time  her  beauty  faded,  she  humbled 
her  pride,  and  followed  her  fate  by  becoming  a  mercharU's  wife. 

•  •  • 

The  wine  ran  out  and  the  songs  ceased.     My  grief  was  such 
that  I  made  a  few  short  poems  to  set  to  music  for  singing. 

•  •  *  * 

But  now  perturbed,  engulfed,  distressed,  worn  out,  I  nuwe 
about  the  river  and  lake  at  my  leisure.    I  have  been  out  of 


76  PO   CHU-I 

office  for  two  years,  hut  the  effect  of  this  man's  words  is  such 
as  to  produce  a  peaceful  influence  within  me. 

This  evening  I  feel  that  I  have  dismissed  all  the  reproachful 
thoughts  I  harboured,  and  in  consequence  have  made  a  long 
poem  which  I  intend  to  present  to  the  court. 


By  night,  beside  the  river,  underneath 

The  flower-Hke  maple  leaves  that  bloom  alone 

In  autumn's  silent  revels  of  decay, 

We  said  farewell.     The  host,  dismounting,  sped 

The  parting  guest  whose  boat  rocked  under  him, 

And  when  the  circling  stirrup-cup  went  round, 

No  light  guitar,  no  lute,  was  heard  again  ; 

But  on  the  heart  aglow  with  wine  there  fell 

Beneath  the  cold  bright  moon  the  cold  adieu 

Of  fading  friends — when  suddenly  beyond 

The  cradled  waters  stole  the  lullaby 

Of  some  faint  lute  ;  then  host  forgot  to  go, 

Guest  lingered  on  :  all,  wondering  at  the  spell, 

Besought  the  dim  enchantress  to  reveal 

Her  presence  ;   but  the  music  died  and  gave 

No  answer,  dying.     Then  a  boat  shot  forth 

To  bring  the  shy  musician  to  the  shore. 

Cups  w^ere  refilled  and  lanterns  trimmed  again, 

And  so  the  festival  went  on.     At  last, 

Slow  yielding  to  their  prayers,  the  stranger  came, 

Hiding  her  burning  face  behind  her  lute  ; 

And  twice  her  hand  essayed  the  strings,  and  twice 

She  faltered  in  her  task  ;  then  tenderly. 

As  for  an  old  sad  tale  of  hopeless  years, 


THE   LUTE   GIRL  77 

With  drooping  head  and  fingers  deft  she  poured 

Her  soul  forth  into  melodies.     Now  slow 

The  plectrum  led  to  prayer  the  cloistered  chords, 

Now  loudly  with  the  crash  of  falling  rain, 

Now  soft  as  the  leaf  whispering  of  words, 

Now  loud  and  soft  together  as  the  long 

Patter  of  pearls  and  seed-pearls  on  a  dish 

Of  marble  ;   liquid  now  as  from  the  bush 

Warbles  the  mango  bird  ;   meandering 

Now  as  the  streamlet  seawards  ;  voiceless  now 

As  the  wild  torrent  in  the  strangling  arms 

Of  her  ice-lover,  lying  motionless, 

Lulled  in  a  passion  far  too  deep  for  sound. 

Then  as  the  water  from  the  broken  vase 

Gushes,  or  on  the  mailed  horseman  falls 

The  anvil  din  of  steel,  as  on  the  silk 

The  slash  of  rending,  so  upon  the  strings 

Her  plectrum  fell.  .  .  . 

Then  silence  over  us. 
No  sound  broke  the  charmed  air.     The  autumn 

moon 
Swam  silver  o'er  the  tide,  as  with  a  sigh 
The  stranger  stirred  to  go. 

"  I  passed,"  said  she, 
"  My  childhood  in  the  capital ;  my  home 
Was  near  the  hills.     A  girl  of  twelve,  I  learnt 
The  magic  of  the  lute,  the  passionate 
Blending  of  lute  and  voice  that  drew  the  souls 
Of  the  great  masters  to  acknowledgment ; 
And  lovely  women,  envious  of  my  face, 


78  PO   CHU-I 

Bowed  at  the  shrine  in  secret.     The  young  lords 
Vied  for  a  look's  approval.     One  brief  song 
Brought  many  costly  bales.     Gold  ornaments 
And  silver  pins  were  smashed  and  trodden  down, 
And  blood-red  silken  skirts  were  stained  with  wine 
In  oft-times  echoing  applause.     And  so 
I  laughed  my  life  away  from  year  to  year 
Wliile  the  spring  breezes  and  the  autumn  moon 
Caressed  my  careless  head.     Then  on  a  day 
My  brother  sought  the  battles  in  Kansuh  ; 
My  mother  died  :    nights  passed  and  mornings 

came, 
And  with  them  waned  my  beauty.     Now  no  more 
My  doors  were  thronged  ;   few  were  the  cavaliers 
That  lingered  by  my  side  ;  so  I  became 
A  trader's  wife,  the  chattel  of  a  slave 
Whose  lord  was  gold,  who,  parting,  little  recked 
Of  separation  and  the  unhonoured  bride. 
Since  the  tenth  moon  was  full  my  husband  went 
To  where  the  tea-fields  ripen.     I  remained, 
To  wander  in  my  Httle  lonely  boat 
Over  the  cold  bright  wave  o'  nights,  and  dream 
Of  the  dead  days,  the  haze  of  happy  days. 
And  see  them  set  again  in  dreams  and  tears." 


Already  the  sweet  sorrows  of  her  lute 
Had  moved  my  soul  to  pity  ;   now  these  words 
Pierced  me  the  heart.     "  0  lady  fair,"  I  cried, 
**  We  are  the  vagrants  of  the  world,  and  need 


THE   LUTE   GIRL  79 

No  ceremony  to  be  friends.     Last  year 

I  left  the  Imperial  City,  banished  far 

To  this  plague-stricken  spot,  where  desolatiop 

Broods  on  from  year  to  heavy  year,  nor  lute 

Nor  love's  guitar  is  heard.     By  marshy  bank 

Girt  with  tall  yellow  reeds  and  dwarf  bamboos 

I  dwell.     Night  long  and  day  no  stir,  no  sound, 

Only  the  lurking  cuckoo's  blood-stained  note. 

The  gibbon's  mournful  wail.     Hill  songs  I  have, 

And  village  pipes  with  their  discordant  twang. 

But  now  I  listen  to  thy  lute  methinks 

The  gods  were  parents  to  thy  music.     Sit 

And  sing  to  us  again,  while  I  engrave 

Thy  story  on  my  tablets  !  "     Gratefully 

(For  long  she  had  been  standing)  the  lute  girl 

Sat  down  and  passed  into  another  song. 

Sad  and  so  soft,  a  dream,  unlike  the  song 

Of  now  ago.     Then  all  her  hearers  wept 

In  sorrow  unrestrained  ;  and  I  the  more, 

Weeping  until  the  pale  chrysanthemums 

Upon  my  darkened  robe  were  starred  with  dew. 


THE   NEVER-ENDING  WRONG 

I  have  already  alluded  to  the  story  of  the  Emperor  Ming 
Huang  and  the  lady  Yang  Kwei-fei,  or  T'ai  Chen,  as  she  is 
called,  in  my  introduction.  In  order  that  the  events  which 
led  up  to  her  tragic  death  may  be  understood,  I  have  given 


80  PO   CHU-I 

in  front  of  the  poem  a  short  extract  from  the  old  Chines* 
annals  translated  into  French  by  the  Jesuit  Father  Joseph 
de  Mailla  in  1778.  The  Emperor  is  fleeing  with  a  small, 
ill-disciplined  force  before  the  rebelhous  general  An  Lu-shan 
into  the  province  of  Ssiich'uan.  So  the  bald  narrative 
resumes : 


As  the  Emperor  was  followed  by  a  numerous  suite,  and 
because  time  was  lacking,  the  arrangements  for  so  long  a  journey 
were  found  to  be  insuffLcieni.  On  their  arrival  at  Ma-wei 
both  officers  and  men  murmured  lou(Hy  against  Yang  Kuo- 
chung,^  accusing  him  of  having  brought  all  the  present  evils 
upon  them.  The  ambassador  of  the  King  of  Tibet,  followed 
by  twenty  retainers,  seeing  the  Prime  Minister  pass,  stopped 
him,  and  asked  for  provisions.  Then  the  soldiers  cried  out 
that  Yang  u>as  conspiring  with  the  strangers,  and  throwing 
themselves  upon  him,  they  cut  off  his  head,  which  they  exposed 
on  a  stake  to  the  public  gaze.  The  Emperor,  becoming  aware 
of  this  violence,  did  not,  however,  dare  to  exact  punishment. 
He  sent  an  officer  to  the  chief  of  those  who  liad  slain  the  Prime 
Minister,  to  find  out  the  reason  for  their  deed ;  he  replied  that 
they  had  done  so  because  Yang  was  on  the  point  of  rebellion. 
The  leader  of  the  revolt  even  demanded  the  instant  execution 
of  the  lady  T'ai  Chen,  as  she  was  the  sister  of  the  supposed  rebel, 
Yang.  The  Emperor,  who  loved  her,  desired  to  prove  her 
innocence  by  showing  that  it  was  impossible  for  her,  living 
always  as  she  did  within  the  Palace  precincts,  to  be  confederate 
to  her  brother's  plot.  His  envoy,  however,  urged  him  that 
it  was  politic,  after  the  events  he  had  witnessed,  to  sacrifi/x 
her,  innocent  as  she  was,  if  he  wished  to  escape  from  the  dangers 
of  (another)  revolution.  The  Emperor,  yielding  to  political 
necessity,  gave  her  into  the  hands  of  the  envoy  with  the  ordtr 
that  she  should  be  strangled. 


1  Minister  of  State,  brother  to  T'ai  Chin. 


THE   NEVER-ENDING   WRONG        81 

Ennui 

Tired  of  pale  languors  and  the  painted  smile, 
ffis  Majesty  the  Son  of  Heaven,  long  time 
A  slave  of  beauty,  ardently  desired 
The  glance  that  brings  an  Empire's  overthrow. 

Beauty 

From  the  Yang  family  a  maiden  came, 
Glowing  to  womanhood  a  rose  aflame, 
Reared  in  the  inner  sanctuary  apart. 
Lost  to  the  world,  resistless  to  the  heart ; 
For  beauty  such  as  hers  was  hard  to  hide. 
And  so,  when  summoned  to  the  monarch's  side, 
Her  flashing  eye  and  merry  laugh  had  power 
To  charm  into  pure  gold  the  leaden  hour  ; 
And  through  the  paint  and  powder  of  the  court 
All  gathered  to  the  sunshine  that  she  brought. 
In  spring,  by  the  Imperial  command. 
The  waters  of  Hua'ch'ing  beheld  her  stand. 
Laving  her  body  in  the  crystal  wave 
Whose  dimpled  fount  a  warmth  perennial  gave. 
Then  when,  her  girls  attending,  forth  she  came, 
A  reed  in  motion  and  a  rose  in  flame, 
An  empire  passed  into  a  maid's  control. 
And  with  her  eyes  she  won  a  monarch's  soul. 

Revelry 

Hair  of  cloud  o'er  face  of  flower, 
Nodding  plumes  where  she  alights, 

0 


82  PO   CHIJ-I 

In  the  white  hibiscus  bower 
She  Hngers  through  the  soft  spring  nights- 
Nights  too  short,  though  wearing  late 
Till  the  mimosa  days  are  born. 
Never  more  affairs  of  State 
Wake  them  in  the  early  morn. 
Wine-stained  moments  on  the  wing, 
MoonHt  hours  go  luting  by, 
She  who  leads  the  flight  of  Spring 
Leads  the  midnight  revehy. 
Flawless  beauties,  thousands  three. 
Deck  the  Imperial  harem, 
Yet  the  monarch's  eyes  may  see 
Only  one,  and  one  supreme. 
Goddess  in  a  golden  hall, 
Fairest  maids  around  her  gleam, 
Wine-fumes  of  the  festival 
Daily  waft  her  into  dream. 
Smiles  she,  and  her  sires  are  lords, 
Noble  rank  her  brothers  win  : 
Ah,  the  ominous  awards 
Showered  upon  her  kith  and  kin  ! 
For  throughout  the  land  there  runs 
Thought  of  peril,  thought  of  fire  ; 
Men  rejoice  not  in  their  sons — 
Daughters  are  their  sole  desire. 
In  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
Piercing  the  grey  skies  above, 

'  Pronounced  hareem. 


THE   NEVER-ENDING   WRONG        83 

Music  on  the  languid  breeze 
Draws  the  dreaming  world  to  love. 
Song  and  dance  and  hands  that  sway 
The  passion  of  a  thousand  lyres 
Ever  through  the  Hve-long  day, 
And  the  monarch  never  tires. 
Sudden  comes  the  answer  curt, 
Loud  the  fish-skin  war-drums  roar  ; 
Cease  the  plaintive  "  rainbow  skirt  "  : 
Death  is  drumming  at  the  door. 


Flight 

Clouds  upon  clouds  of  dust  enveloping 
The  lofty  gates  of  the  proud  capital. 
On,  on,  to  the  south-west,  a  Uving  wall, 
Ten  thousand  battle-chariots  on  the  wing. 

Feathers  and  jewels  flashing  through  the  cloud 
Onwards,  and  then  an  halt.     The  legions  wait 
A  hundred  H  beyond  the  western  gate  ; 
The  great  walls  loom  behind  them  wrapt  in  cloud. 

No  further  stirs  the  sullen  soldiery. 
Naught  but  the  last  dread  office  can  avail, 
Till  she  of  the  dark  moth-eyebrows,  Uly  pale, 
Shines  through  tall  avenues  of  spears  to  die. 


84  PO   CHU-I 

Upon  the  ground  lie  ornaments  of  gold, 
One  with  the  dust,  and  none  to  gather  them, 
Hair-pins  of  jade  and  many  a  costly  gem, 
Kingfishers'  wings  and  golden  birds  scarce  oold. 

The  king  has  sought  the  darkness  of  his  hands. 
Veiling  the  eyes  that  looked  for  help  in  vain, 
And  as  he  turns  to  gaze  upon  the  slain. 
His  tears,  her  blood,  are  mingled  on  the  sands 


Exile 

Across  great  plains  of  yellow  sand, 

Where  the  whisthng  winds  are  blown, 

Over  the  cloud-topped  mountain  peaks, 
They  wend  their  way  alone. 

Few  are  the  pilgrims  that  attain 

Mount  Omi's  heights  afar  ; 
And  the  bright  gleam  of  their  standard  grows 

Faint  as  the  last  pale  star. 

Dark  the  Ssiich'uan  waters  loom, 

Dark  the  Ssiich'uan  hills. 
And  day  and  night  the  monarch's  life 

An  endless  sorrow  fills. 

The  brightness  of  the  foreign  moon 

Saddens  his  lonely  heart ; 
And  a  sound  of  a  bell  in  the  evening  rain 

Doth  rend  his  soul  apart. 


THE  NEVER-ENDING   WRONG        85 


Return 

The  days  go  by,  and  once  again, 
Among  the  shadows  of  his  pain, 
He  Hngers  at  the  well-known  place 
That  holds  the  memory  of  her  face. 

But  from  the  clouds  of  earth  that  lie 
Beneath  the  foot  of  tall  Ma-wei 
No  signs  of  her  dim  form  appear, 
Only  the  place  of  death  is  here. 

Statesman's  and  monarch's  eyes  have  met, 
And  royal  robes  with  tears  are  wet  ; 
Then  eastward  flies  the  frantic  steed 
As  on  to  the  Red  Wall  they  speed. 


Home 

There  is  the  pool,  the  flowers  as  of  old, 
There  the  hibiscus  at  the  gates  of  gold. 
And  there  the  willows  round  the  palace  rise. 
In  the  hibiscus  flower  he  sees  her  face, 
Her  eyebrows  in  the  willow  he  can  trace, 
And  silken  pansies  thrill  him  with  her  eyes. 

How  in  this  presence  should  his  tears  not  come, 
In  spring  amid  the  bloom  of  peach  and  plum, 


86  PO   CHU-I 

In  autumn  rains  when  the  wut*ung  leaves  must 

fall? 
South  of  the  western  palace  many  trees 
Shower  their  dead  leaves  upon  the  terraces, 
And  not  a  hand  to  stir  their  crimson  pall. 

Ye  minstrels  of  the  Garden  of  the  Pear/ 

Grief  with  the  touch  of  age  has  blanched  your 

hair. 
Ye  guardians  of  the  Pepper  Chamber,*  now 
No  longer  young  to  him,  the  firefly  flits 
Through  the  black  hall  where,  lost  to  love,  he  sits, 
Folding  the  veil  of  sorrows  round  his  brow, 

Alone,  and  one  by  one  the  lanterns  die. 
Sleep  with  the  lily  hands  has  passed  him  by, 
Slowly  the  watches  of  the  night  are  gone, 
For  now,  alas  !  the  nights  are  all  too  long. 
And  shine  the  stars,  a  silver,  mocking  throng. 
As  though  the  dawn  were  dead  or  slumbered  on. 

Cold  settles  on  the  painted  duck  and  drake, 
The  frost  a  ghostly  tapestry  doth  make, 
Chill  the  kingflsher's  quilt  with  none  to  share. 
Parted  by  life  and  death  ;  the  ebb  and  flow 
Of  night  and  day  over  his  spirit  go  ; 
He  hunts  her  face  in  dreams,  and  finds  despair. 

^  The  Pear  Garden  was  a  college  of  music  founded  by  Ming 
Huang  for  the  purpose  of  training  the  youth  of  both  sexes. 
'  The  women's  part  of  the  palace. 


THE   NEVER-ENDING  WRONG       87 

Spirit-Land 

A  priest  of  Tao,  one  of  the  Hung-tu  school, 

Was  able  by  his  magic  to  compel 

The  spirits  of  the  dead.     So  to  reHeve 

The  sorrows  of  his  king,  the  man  of  Tao 

Receives  an  urgent  summons.     Borne  aloft 

Upon  the  clouds,  on  ether  charioted, 

He  flies  with  speed  of  lightning.     High  to  heaven, 

Low  down  to  earth,  he,  seeking  everywhere, 

Floats  on  the  far  empyrean,  and  below 

The  yellow  springs  ;   but  nowhere  in  great  space 

Can  he  find  aught  of  her.     At  length  he  hears 

An  old-world  tale  :  an  Island  of  the  Blest  ' — 

So  runs  the  legend — in  mid-ocean  lies 

In  realms  of  blue  vacuity,  too  faint 

To  be  descried  ;  there  gaily  coloured  towers 

Rise  up  hke  rainbow  clouds,  and  many  gentle 

And  beautiful  Immortals  pass  their  days 

In  peace.     Among  them  there  is  one  whose  name 

Sounds  upon  lips  as  Eternal.     By  the  bloom 

Of  her  white  skin  and  flower-hke  face  he  knows 

That  this  is  she.     Knocking  at  the  jade  door 

At  the  western  gate  of  the  golden  house,  ho  bids 

A  fair  maid  breathe  his  name  to  one  more  fair 

Than  all.     She,  hearing  of  this  embassy 

Sent  by  the  Son  of  Heaven,  starts  from  her  dreama 

Among  the  tapestry  curtains.     Gathering 

1  The  fabled  Island  of  P'«ng!ai. 


88  PO   CHU-I 

Her  robes  around  her,  letting  the  pillow  fall, 
She,  risen  in  haste,  begins  to  deck  herself 
With  pearls  and  gems.     Her  cloud-hke  hair,  dis- 
hevelled, 
Betrays  the  nearness  of  her  sleep.     And  with  the 

droop 
Of  her  flowery  plumes  in  disarray,  she  floats 
Light  through  the  hall.     The  sleeves  of  her  divine 
Raiment  the  breezes  fill.     As  once  again 
To  the  Rainbow  Skirt  and  Feather  Jacket  air 
She  seems  to  dance,  her  face  is  fixed  and  calm, 
Though  many  tear-drops  on  an  almond  bough 
Fall,  and  recall  the  rains  of  spring.     Subdued 
Her  wild  emotions  and  restrained  her  grief, 
She  tenders  thanks  unto  his  Majesty, 
Saying  how  since  they  parted  she  has  missed 
His  form  and  voice  ;  how,  though  their  love  had 

reached 
Too  soon  its  earthly  limit,  yet  among 
The  blest  a  multitude  of  mellow  noons 
Remain  ungathered.     Turning  now,  she  leans 
Toward  the  land  of  the  Hving,  and  in  vain 
Would  find  the  Imperial  city,  lost  in  the  dust 
And  haze.     Then  raising  from  their  lacquered 

gloom 
Old  keepsakes,  tokens  of  undying  love, 
A  golden  hair-pin,  an  enamel  brooch. 
She  bids  him  bear  them  to  her  lord.     One-half 
The  hair-pin  still  she  keeps,  one-half  the  brooch, 
Breaking  with  her  dim  hands  the  yellow  gold, 


THE   NEVER-ENDING   WRONG        89 

Sundering  the  enamel.     "  Tell  my  lord," 
She  murmured,  "  to  be  firm  of  heart  as  this 
Gold  and  enamel ;   then,  in  heaven  or  earth. 
Below,   we   twain   may   meet   once   more."     At 

parting 
She  gave  a  thousand  messages  of  love. 
Among  the  rest  recalled  a  mutual  pledge, 
How  on  the  seventh  day  of  the  seventh  moon, 
Within  the  Hall  of  Immortality 
At  midnight,  whispering,  when  none  were  near, 
Low  in  her  ear,  he  breathed,  "  I  swear  that  we, 
Like  to  the  one-winged  birds,  will  ever  fly, 
Or  grow  united  as  the  tree  whose  boughs 
Are  interwoven.     Heaven  and  earth  shall  fall, 
Long  lasting  as  they  are.     But  this  great  wrong 
Shall  stretch  from  end  to  end  the  universe, 
And  shine  beyond  the  ruin  of  the  stars." 


THE   RIVER  AND   THE   LEAP 

Into  the  night  the  sounds  of  luting  flow  ; 
The  west  wind  stirs  amid  the  root-crop  blue  ; 
While  envious  fireflies  spoil  the  twinkhng  dew, 
And  early  wild-geese  stem  the  dark  Kin-ho. 

Now  great  trees  tell  their  secrets  to  the  sky. 
And  hill  on  hill  looms  in  the  moon-clear  night. 
I  watch  one  leaf  upon  the  river  light. 
And  in  a  dream  go  drifting  down  the  Hwai. 


00  PO  CHU-I 


LAKE   SHANQ 

Oh !  she  is  like  a  picture  in  the  spring, 

This  lake  of  Shang,  with  the  wild  hills  gathering 

Into  a  winding  garden  at  the  base 

Of  stormless  waters  ;  pines,  deep  blue,  enlace 

The    lessening    slopes,    and    broken    moonlight 

gleams 
Across    the    waves    hke    pearls    we    thread    in 

dreams. 
Like  a  woof  of  jasper  strands  the  corn  unfolds, 
Field  upon  field  beyond  the  quiet  wolds  ; 
The  late-blown  rush  flaunts  in  the  dusk  serene 
Her  netted  sash  and  slender  skirt  of  green. 
Sadly  I  turn  my  prow  toward  the  shore. 
The  dream  behind  me  and  the  world  before. 
0  Lake  of  Shang,  his  feet  may  wander  far 
Whose  soul  thou  boldest  mirrored  as  a  star. 


THE    RUINED    HOME 

Who  was  the  far-off  founder  of  the  house, 
With  its  red  gates  abutting  to  the  road  ? — 
A  palace,  though  its  outer  wings  are  shorn, 
And  domes  of  ghttering  tiles.     The  wall  without 
Has  tottered  into  ruin,  yet  remain 
The  straggHng  fragments  of  some  seven  courts, 
The  wreck  of  seven  fortunes  :  roof  and  eaves 
Still  hang  together.     From  this  chamber  cool 


THE  RUINED  HOME  91 

The   dense   blue   smoke  arose.      Nor   heat   nor 

cold 
Now  dwells  therein.     A  tall  paviHon  stands 
Empty  beside  the  empty  rooms  that  face 
The   pine-browed   southern   hills.     Long   purple 

vines 
Frame  the  verandahs. 

Mount  the  sunken  step 
Of  the  red,  joyous  threshold,  and  shake  down 
The  peach  and  cherry  branches.     Yonder  group 
Of  scarlet  peonies  hath  ringed  about 
A  lordly  fellow  with  ten  witnesses 
Of  his  official  rank.     The  taint  of  meat 
Lingers  around  the  kitchen,  and  a  trace 
Of  vanished  hoards  the  treasury  retains. 


Who  can  lay  hold  upon  my  words  ?     Give  heed 
And   commune   with    thyself !     How   poor    and 

mean 
Is  the  last  state  of  wretchedness,  when  cold 
And  famine  thunder  at  the  gates,  and  none 
But  pale  endurance  on  the  threshold  stands 
With  helpless  hands  and  hollow  eyes,  the  dumb 
Beholder  of  calamity.     0  thou 
That  would  protect  the  land  a  thousand  years, 
Behold  they  are  not  that  herein  once  bloomed 
And  perished  ;  but  the  garden  breathes  of  them, 
And  all  the  flowers  are  fragrant  for  their  sakes. 
Salute  the  garden  that  salutes  the  dead  ! 


92  PO   CHU-I 


A  PALACE   STOBY 


A  network  handkerchief  contains  no  tear. 
'Tis  dawn  at  court  ere  wine  and  music  sate. 
The  rich  red  crops  no  aftermath  await. 
Rest  on  a  screen,  and  you  will  fall,  I  fear. 


PEACEFUL   OLD   AGE 

Chuang  Tzu  said  :    "  Tao  ^  gives  me  this  toil  in  manhood, 
this  repose  in  old  age,  this  rest  in  death." 

Swiftly  and  soon  the  golden  sun  goes  down, 
The  blue  sky  wells  afar  into  the  night. 
Tao  is  the  changeful  world's  environment ; 
Happy  are  they  that  in  its  laws  dehght. 

Tao  gives  me  toil,  youth's  passion  to  achieve, 
And  leisure  in  life's  autumn  and  decay. 
I  follow  Tao — the  seasons  are  my  friends  ; 
Opposing  it  misfortunes  come  my  way. 

Within  my  breast  no  sorrows  can  abide  ; 

I  feel  the  great  world's  spirit  through  me  thrill. 

And  as  a  cloud  I  drift  before  the  wind. 

Or  with  the  random  swallow  take  my  will. 

»  Literally,  "  The  Way." 


PEACEFUL   OLD   AGE  93 

As  underneath  the  mulberry-tree  I  dream, 
The  water-clock  drips  on,  and  dawn  appears  : 
A  new  day  shines  on  wrinkles  and  white  hair. 
The  symbols  of  the  fulness  of  my  years. 

If  I  depart,  I  cast  no  look  behind  : 
Still  wed  to  hfe,  I  still  am  free  from  care. 
Since  life  and  death  in  cycles  come  and  go, 
Of  little  moment  are  the  days  to  spare. 

Thus  strong  in  faith  I  wait,  and  long  to  be 
One  with  the  pulsings  of  Eternity. 


SLEEPLESSNESS 

I  cannot  rest  when  the  cool  is  gone  from  June, 
But  haunt  the  dim  verandah  till  the  moon 

Fades  from  the  dawn's  pursuit. 
The  stirrup-fires  beneath  the  terrace  flare ; 
Over  the  star-domed  court  a  low,  sad  air 

Roams  from  a  hidden  lute. 

This  endless  heat  doth  urge  me  to  extremes  ; 
Yet  cool  of  autumn  waits  till  the  wild  goose 
screams 

In  the  track  of  whirling  skies. 
My  hand  is  laid  upon  the  cup  once  more, 
And  of  the  red-gold  vintage  I  implore 
The  sleep  that  night  denies. 


94  PO   CHU-I 


THE    GRASS 

How  beautiful  and  fresh  the  grass  returns  ! 
When  golden  days  decline,  the  meadow  burns ; 
Yet  autumn  suns  no  hidden  root  have  slain, 
The  spring  winds  blow,  and  there  is  grass  again. 

Green  rioting  on  olden  ways  it  falls  : 
The  blue  sky  storms  the  ruined  city  walls  ; 
Yet  since  Wang  Sun  departed  long  ago, 
When   the   grass  blooms  both  joy  and  fear   I 
know. 


AUTUMN  ACROSS  THE  FRONTIER 

The  last  red  leaves  droop  sadly  o'er  the  slain  ; 
In  the  long  tower  my  cup  of  wine  I  drain. 
Watching    the   mist-flocks    driven    through    the 

hills, 
And  great  blown  roses  ravished  by  the  rain. 

The  beach  tints  hnger  down  the  frontier  line. 
And  sounding  waters  shimmer  to  the  brine  ; 
Over  the  Yellow  Kingdom  breaks  the  sun. 
Yet  dreams,  and  woodlands,  and  the  chase  are 
mine. 


THE  FLOWER  FAIR 


THE   FLOWER  FAIR 

The  city  walls  rise  up  to  greet 

Spring's  luminous  twilight  hours  ; 
The  clamour  of  carts  goes  down  the  street 

This  is  the  Fair  of  Flowers. 
Leisure  and  pleasure  drift  along, 
Beggar  and  marquis  join  the  throng, 
And  care,  humility,  rank,  and  pride 
In  the  sight  of  the  flowers  are  laid  aside. 
Bright,  oh  !  bright  are  a  thousand  shades, 
Crimson  splashes  and  slender  blades 

With  five  white  fillets  bound. 
Tents  are  here  that  will  cover  all, 
Ringed  with  trelhs  and  leafy  wall, 

And  the  dust  is  laid  around. 
Naught  but  hfe  doth  here  display ; 
The  djdng  flower  is  cast  away  ; 
Families  meet  and  intermingle. 
Lovers  are  parted,  and  friends  go  single. 

One  ambition  all  avow — 
A  roof  to  harbour,  a  field  to  plough* 
See,  they  come  to  the  Flower  Fair, 
Youth  and  maiden,  a  laughing  pair. 
Bowed  and  sighing  the  greybeard  wends 
Alone  to  the  mart  where  sighing  ends. 
For  here  is  a  burden  all  may  bear, 
The  crimson  and  gold  of  the  Flower  Fair. 


9d  PO   CHU-I 


THE   PENALTIES   OF  RANK 

Thre»e  score  and  ten  !     A  slave  to  office  yet ! 
In  the  Li  Chi  these  luminous  words  befall  : 
"  The  lust  for  honours  honoars  not  at  all," 
Here  is  the  golden  Hne  we  most  forget. 

Alas  !  how  these  long  years  afflict  a  man  ! 
When  teeth  are  gone,  and  failing  eyes  grow  dim. 
The  morning  dews  brought  dreams  of  fame  to  him 
Who  bears  in  dusk  the  burdens  of  his  clan. 

His  eyes  still  hnger  on  the  tassel  blue, 
And  still  the  red  sedan  of  rank  appeals. 
But  his  shrunk  belly  scarce  the  girdle  feels 
As,    bowed,    he    crawls    the    Prince's    Gateway 
through. 

Where  is  the  man  that  would  not  wealth  acclaim  ? 
Who  would  not  truckle  for  his  sovereign's  grace  ? 
Yet  years  of  high  renown  their  furrows  trace. 
And  greatness  overwhelms  the  weary  frame. 

The  springs  of  laughter  flow  not  from  his  heart. 
Where  bide  the  dust  and  glamour  of  old  days. 
Who  walks  alone  in  contemplation's  ways  ? 
^Tis  he,  the  happy  man,  who  dwells  apart. 


THE   ISLAND   OF   PINES  97 


THE   ISLAND   OF  PINES 

Across  the  willow-lake  a  temple  shines, 
Pale,  through  the  lotus-girdled  isle  of  pines, 
And  twilight  Hstens  to  the  drip  of  oars — 
The  coming  of  dark  boats  with  scented  stores 
Of  orange  seed ;  the  mist  leans  from  the  hill, 
While  palm  leaves  sway  'twixt  wind  and  water 

chill, 
And  waves  of   smoke  like  phantoms   rise   and 

fade 
Into  a  trembling  tangle  of  green  jade. 
I  dream  strange  dreams  within  my  tower  room, 
Dreams   from    the   ghmmering   realms   of   even 

gloom  ; 
Until  each  princely  guest  doth,  landing,  raise 
His  eyes,  upon  the  full-orbed  moon  to  gaze— 
The  old  moon-palace  that  in  ocean  stands 
Mid  clouds  of  thistle-down  and  jewelled  strands. 


SPRINGTIDE 

The  lonely  convent  on  the  hill 

Draws  merchants  faring  from  the  west ; 

Almost  upon  the  waters  still 

The  quiet  clouds  lean  down  and  rest. 

7 


98  PO   CHIJ-I 

In  green  pavilions  of  warm  trees 
The  golden  builders  toil  and  sing  ; 
While  swallows  dip  along  the  leas, 
And  dabble  in  the  ooze  of  Spring. 

A  thousand  flowers,  a  thousand  dreams, 
Bright  pageants  in  confusion  pass. 
See  yonder,  where  the  white  horse  gleams 
His  fetlocks  deep  in  pHant  grass. 

Beside  the  eastern  lake  there  calls 
No  laughing  throng,  no  lover  goes  ; 
But  in  the  long  embankment  walls 
The  willow  shade  invites  repose. 


THE   ANCIENT  WIND 

The  peach  blooms  open  on  the  eastern  wall — 
I  breathe  their  fragrance,  laughing  in  the  glow 
Of  golden  noontide.     Suddenly  there  comes 
The  revelation  of  the  ancient  wind, 
Flooding  my  soul  with  glory  ;  till  I  feel 
One  with  the  brightness  of  the  first  far  dawn, 
One  with  the  many-coloured  spring  ;  and  all 
The  secrets  of  the  scented  hearts  of  flowers 
Are  whispered  through  me  ;  till  I  cry  aloud : — 
"  Alas  1  how  grey  and  scentless  is  the  bloom 
Of  mortal  life  !  "    This— this  alone  I  fear, 


THE   ANCIENT   WIND  99 

That  from  yon  twinkling  mirror  of  delight 

The  unreal  flowers  may  fade  ;  that  with  the  breath 

Of  the  fiery  flying  Dragon  they  will  fall 

Petal  by  petal,  slowly,  yet  too  soon, 

Into  the  world's  green  sepulchre.     Alas  ! 

My  Httle  friends,  my  lovers,  we  must  part. 

And,  like  some  uncompanioned  pine  that  stands, 

Last  of  the  legions  on  the  southern  slopes, 

I  too  shall  stand  alone,  and  hungry  winds 

Shall  gnaw  the  lute-strings  of  my  desolate  heart. 


LI    HUA 

CIRCA   A.D.    850 
AN   OLD   BATTLE-FIELD 

Vast,  vast — an  endless  wilderness  of  sand  ; 

A  stream  crawls  through  its  tawny  banks  ;    the 

hills 
Encompass  it ;   where  in  the  dismal  dusk 
Moan  the  last  sighs  of  sunset.     Shrubs  are  gone, 
Withered  the  grass  ;  all  chill  as  the  white  rime 
Of  early  morn.     The  birds  go  soaring  past, 
The  beasts  avoid  it ;   for  the  legend  runs — 
Told  by  the  crook'd  custodian  of  the  place — 
Of  some  old  battle-field.     "  Here  many  a  time," 
He  quavered,  "  armies  have  been  overwhelmed, 
And  the  faint  voices  of  the  unresting  dead 
Often  upon  the  darkness  of  the  night 
Go  wailing  by." 

O  sorrow  !     O  ye  Ch'ins  I 
Ye  Hans  !  ye  dynasties  for  ever  flown ! 
Ye  empires  of  the  dust !  for  I  have  heard 
How,  when  the  Ch'is  and  Weis  embattled  rosa 

100 


AN   OLD   BATTLE-FIELD  101 

Along  the  frontier,  when  the  Chings  and  Hans 
Gathered  their  multitudes,  a  myriad  leagues 
Of  utter  weariness  they  trod.     By  day 
Grazing  their  jaded  steeds,  by  night  they  ford 
The  hostile  stream.     The  endless  earth  below, 
The  boundless  sky  above,  they  know  no  day 
Of  their  return.     Their  breasts  are  ever  bared 
To  the  pitiless  steel  and  all  the  wounds  of  war 
Unspeakable. 

Methinks  I  see  them  now. 
Dust-mantled  in  the  bitter  wind,  a  host 
Of  Tartar  warriors  in  ambuscade. 
Our  leader  scorns  the  foe.     He  would  give  battle 
Upon  the  threshold  of  the  camp.     The  stream 
Besets  a  grim  array  where  order  reigns. 
Though  many  hearts  may  beat,  where  discipline 
Is  all,  and  Hfe  of  no  account. 

The  spear 
Now  works  its  iron  will,  the  startled  sand 
BHnding  the  combatants  together  locked 
In  the  death-grip  ;  while  hill  and  vale  and  stream 
Glow  with  the  flash  and  crash  of  arms.    Then  cold 
The  shades  of  night  o'erwhelm  them  ;  to  the  knee 
In  snow,  beards  stiff  with  ice.     The  carrion  bird 
Hath    sought    its    nest.     The    war-horse    in   its 

strength 
Is  broken.     Clothes  avail  not.     Hands  are  dead, 
Flesh  to  the  frost  succumbs.     Nature  herself 
Doth  aid  the  Tartar  with  a  deadly  blast 
Following  the  wild  onslaught.     Wagons  block 


102  U  HUA 

The  way.     Our  men,  beset  with  flank  attacks, 
Surrender  with  their  officers.     Their  chief 
Is  slain.     The  river  to  its  topmost  banks 
Swollen  with  death  ;  the  dykes  of  the  Great  Wall 
Brimming  with  blood.     Nation  and  rank  are  lost 
In  that  vast-Tieaped  corruption. 

Faintly  now, 
And  fainter  beats  the  drum  ;  for  strength  is  shorn, 
And  arrows  spent,  and  bow-strings  snapped,  and 

swords 
Shattered.     The  legions  fall  on  one  another 
In  the  last  surge  of  life  and  death.     To  yield 
Is  to  become  a  slave  ;  to  fight  is  but 
To  mingle  with  the  desert  sands. 

No  sound 
Of  bird  now  flutters  from  the  hushed  hillside  ; 
All,  all  is  still,  save  for  the  wind  that  wails 
And  whistles  through  the  long  night  where  the 

ghosts 
Hither  and  thither  in  the  gloom  go  by. 
And  spirits  from  the  nether  world  arise 
Under  the  ominous  clouds.     The  sunlight  pales 
Athwart  the  trampled  grass  ;  the  fading  moon 
Still  twinkles  on  the  frost-flakes  scattered  round. 


SSU-K'UNG    T'U 

A.D.  834-908 

LrrTLE  is  known  of  his  life,  except  that  he  was  Secretary 
to  the  Board  of  Rites  and  retired  from  this  position  to  lead 
the  contemplative  life.  His  introduction  to  the  European 
world  is  entirely  due  to  Professor  Giles.  No  mention  is 
made  of  him  in  the  French  collection  of  the  T'ang  poets 
by  the  Marquis  de  Saint-Denys.  Yet  the  importance  of  his 
work  cannot  well  be  over-estimated.  He  is  perhaps  the 
most  Chiuese  of  the  poets  dealt  with,  and  certainly  one  of 
the  most  philosophical.  By  his  subtly  simple  method  of 
treatment,  lofty  themes  are  clothed  in  the  bright  raiment 
of  poetry.  If  through  the  red  pine  woods,  or  amid  the  torrent 
of  peach-blossom  rushing  down  the  valley,  some  mortal 
beauty  strays,  she  is  but  a  symbol,  a  lure  that  leads  us  by 
way  of  the  particular  into  the  universal.  Whatever  senses 
we  possess  may  be  used  as  means  of  escape  from  the  prison 
of  personality  into  the  boundless  freedom  of  the  spiritual 
world.  And  once  the  soul  is  set  free,  there  is  no  need  for 
painful  aimless  wanderings,  no  need  for  Mahomet  to  go  to 
the  Mountain,  for  resting  in  the  centre  of  all  things  the 
imiverse  will  be  our  home  and  our  share  in  the  secrets  of 
the  World-Builder  will  be  made  known. 

Freighted  with  eternal  principles 

Athwart  the  night's  void. 

Where  cloud  masses  darken. 

And  the  wind  blows  ceaseless  around, 

108 


104  SSU-K'UNG  T'U 

Beyond  the  range  of  conceptions 
Let  us  gain  the  Centre, 
And  there  hold  fast  without  violence. 
Fed  from  an  inexhaiistible  supply.^ 

With  such  a  philosophy  there  are  infinite  possibilities. 
The  poet  is  an  occultist  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word. 
For  him,  Time  and  Space  no  longer  exist,  and  by  "  concen- 
tration "  he  is  able  to  communicate  with  the  beloved,  and 

Sweet  words  falter  to  and  fro — 
Though  the  great  River  rolls  between. 

Ssii-K'ung  T'u,  more  than  any  poet,  teaches  how  unreal 
are  the  apparent  limitations  of  man.  "  He  is  the  peer  of 
heaven  and  earth  "  ;  "  A  co-worker  in  Divine  transformation." 
With  his  keen  vision  the  poet  sees  things  in  a  glance  and 
paints  them  in  a  single  line,  and  in  the  poem  as  a  whole  you 
get  the  sense  of  beauty  beyond  beauty,  as  though  the  seer 
had  looked  into  a  world  that  underlay  the  world  of  form. 
And  yet  there  is  nothing  strained,  no  peering  through  tele- 
scopes to  find  new  worlds  or  magnify  the  old ;  the  eyes  need 
only  be  lifted  for  a  moment,  and  the  great  power  is  not  the 
power  of  sight,  but  sympathy. 

And  Nature,  ever  prodigal  to  her  lovers,  repays  their  favours 
in  full  measure.  To  this  old  artist-lover  she  grants  no  petty 
details,  no  chance  revelations  of  this  or  that  sweetness  and 
quality  but  her  whole  pure  self.  Yet  such  a  gift  is  illimitable ; 
he  may  only  win  from  secret  to  secret  and  die  unsatisfied. 

You  grasp  ten  thousand,  and  secure  one. 

This  might  well  be  written  over  his  tomb,  if  any  verse  were 
needed  to  encompass  him.     By  entering  into  harmony  with 

^  Chinese  Literature,  p.  179. 


RETURN   OF  SPRING  105 

his  environment,  Ssii-K'ung  T'u  allowed  his  splendid  vitality 
to  find  expression,  and  after  the  lapse  of  a  thousand  years 
these  glowing  pages  torn  from  the  book  of  life  have  drifted 
towards  us  Uke  rose-leaves  down  a  sombre  stream. 


EETUEN  OP  SPRING 

A  lovely  maiden,  roaming 

The  wild  dark  valley  through, 
Culls  from  the  shining  waters 

Lilies  and  lotus  blue. 
With  leaves  the  peach-trees  are  laden. 

The  wind  sighs  through  the  haze, 
And  the  wiUows  wave  their  shadows 

Down  the  oriole-haunted  ways. 
As,  passion- tranced,  I  follow, 

I  hear  the  old  refrain 
Of  Spring's  eternal  story. 

That  was  old  and  is  young  again. 


THE   COLOUR   OF  LIFE 

Would  that  we  might  for  ever  stay 
The  rainbow  glories  of  the  world, 
The  blue  of  the  unfathomed  sea. 
The  rare  azalea  late  unfurled. 
The  parrot  of  a  greener  spring. 
The  willows  and  the  terrace  line, 


106  SSU-K'UNG  T'U 

The  stranger  from  the  night-steeped  hills, 
The  roselit  brimming  cup  of  wine. 
Oh  for  a  Hfe  that  stretched  afar, 
Where  no  dead  dust  of  books  were  rife, 
Where  spring  sang  clear  from  star  to  star  ; 
Alas  !  what  hope  for  such  a  Hfe  2 


SET  FREE 

I  revel  in  flowers  without  let, 
An  atom  at  random  in  space  ; 
My  soul  dwells  in  regions  ethereal. 
And  the  world  is  my  dreaming-place. 

As  the  tops  of  the  ocean  I  tower. 

As  the  winds  of  the  air  spreading  wide, 

I  am  'stablished  in  might  and  dominion  and  power, 

With  the  universe  ranged  at  my  side. 

Before  me  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars, 
Behind  me  the  phoenix  doth  clang  ; 
In  the  morning  I  lash  my  leviathans. 
And  I  bathe  my  feet  in  Fusang. 


FASCINATION 

Fair  is  the  pine  grove  and  the  mountain  stream 
That  gathers  to  the  valley  far  below, 


FASCINATION  107 

The  black-winged  junks  on  the  dim  sea  reach, 

adream, 
The  pale  blue  firmament  o'er  banks  of  snow. 
And  her,  more  fair,  more  supple  smooth  than  jade, 
Gleaming  among  the  dark  red  woods  I  follow  : 
Now  lingering,  now  as  a  bird  afraid 
Of  pirate  wings  she  seeks  the  haven  hollow. 
Vague,  and  beyond  the  daylight  of  recall, 
Into  the  cloudland  past  my  spirit  flies, 
As  though  before  the  gold  of  autumn's  fall, 
Before  the  glow  of  the  moon-flooded  skies. 


TRANQUIL   REPOSE 

It  dwells  in  the  quiet  silence, 

Unseen  upon  hill  and  plain, 
'Tis  lapped  by  the  tideless  harmonies, 

It  soars  with  the  lonely  crane. 

As  the  springtime  breeze  whose  flutter 

The  silken  skirts  hath  blown, 
As  the  wind-drawn  note  of  the  bamboo  flute 

Whose  charm  we  would  make  our  own, — 

Chance-met,  it  seems  to  surrender ; 

Sought,  and  it  lures  us  on  ; 
Ever  shifting  in  form  and  fantasy, 

It  eludes  us,  and  is  gone. 


108  SSU-K'UNG   T'U 


THE  POET  S   VISION 


Wine  that  recalls  the  glow  of  spring, 

Upon  the  thatch  a  sudden  shower, 

A  gentle  scholar  in  the  bower, 

Where  tall  bamboos  their  shadows  fling, 

White  clouds  in  heavens  newly  clear. 

And  wandering  wings  through  depths  of  trees, 

Then  pillowed  in  green  shade,  he  sees 

A  torrent  foaming  to  the  mere  ; 

Around  his  dreams  the  dead  leaves  fall ; 

Calm  as  the  starred  chrysanthemum. 

He  notes  the  season  glories  come, 

And  reads  the  books  that  never  pall. 


DESPONDENT 

A  gale  goes  ruffling  down  the  stream. 
The  giants  of  the  forest  crack  ; 
My  thoughts  are  bitter — black  as  death- 
For  she,  my  summer,  comes  not  back. 

A  hundred  years  hke  water  glide, 
Riches  and  rank  are  ashen  cold. 
Daily  the  dream  of  peace  recedes  : 
By  whom  shall  Sorrow  be  consoled  ? 


DESPONDENT  109 

The  soldier,  dauntless,  draws  his  sword, 
And  there  are  tears  and  endless  pain  ; 
The  winds  arise,  leaves  flutter  down, 
And  through  the  old  thatch  drips  the  rain. 


EMBROIDERIES 

If  rank  and  wealth  within  the  mind  abide, 
Then  gilded  dust  is  all  your  yellow  gold. 
Kings  in  their  fretted  palaces  grow  old  ; 
Youth  dwells  for  ever  at  Contentment's  side. 
A  mist  cloud  hanging  at  the  river's  brim, 
Pink  almond  flowers  along  the  purple  bough, 
A  hut  rose-girdled  under  moon-swept  skies, 
A  painted  bridge  half-seen  in  shadows  dim, — 
These  are  the  splendours  of  the  poor,  and  thou, 
0  wine  of  spring,  the  vintage  of  the  wise. 


CONCENTRATION 

A  hut  green-shadowed  among  firs, — 
A  sun  that  slopes  in  amber  air, — 
Lone  wandering,  my  head  I  bare, 
While  some  far  thrush  the  silence  stirs. 

No  flocks  of  wild  geese  thither  fly. 
And  she — ah  !  she  is  far  away  ; 
Yet  all  my  thoughts  behold  her  stay, 
As  in  the  golden  hours  gone  by. 


110  SSU-K'UNG   T'U 

The  clouds  scarce  dim  the  water's  sheen, 
The  moon-bathed  islands  wanly  show, 
And  sweet  words  falter  to  and  fro — 
Though  the  great  River  rolls  between. 


MOTION 

Like  a  water-wheel  awhirl, 

Like  the  rolHng  of  a  pearl ; 
Yet  these  but  illustrate, 
To  fools,  the  final  state. 
The  earth's  great  axis  spinning  on, 
The  never-resting  pole  of  sky — 
Let  us  resolve  their  Whence  and  Why, 
And  blend  with  all  things  into  One  ; 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  thought  and  dream, 
Circling  the  vasty  void  as  spheres 
Whose  orbits  round  a  thousand  years  : 
Behold  the  Key  that  fits  my  theme. 


OU-YANa    HSIU    OF    LU-LING 

A.D.  1007-1072 

With  the  completion  of  the  T'ang  dynasty,  it  was  my 
design  to  bring  this  work  to  conclusion.  I  have,  however, 
decided  to  include  Ou-Yang  Hsiu  of  the  Sung  dynasty,  if 
only  for  the  sake  of  his  "  Autumn,"  which  many  competent 
critics  hold  to  be  one  of  the  finest  things  in  Chinese  literature. 
His  career  was  as  varied  as  his  talents.  In  collaboration 
with  the  historian  Sung  Chi  he  prepared  a  history  of  the 
recent  T'ang  dynasty.  He  also  held  the  important  post  of 
Grand  Examiner,  and  was  at  one  time  appointed  a  Governor 
in  the  provinces.  It  la  difficult  to  praise  the  "  Autumn  " 
too  highly.  With  its  daring  imagery,  grave  magnificence 
of  language  and  solemn  thought,  it  is  nothing  less  than 
Elizabethan,  and  only  the  masters  of  that  age  could  have 
done  it  justice  in  the  rendering. 

AUTUMN 

One  night,  when  dreaming  over  ancient  books, 
There  came  to  me  a  sudden  far-off  sound 
From  the  south-west.     I  hstened,  wondering, 
As  on  it  crept :  at  first  a  gentle  sigh, 
Like  as  a  spirit  passing  ;  then  it  swelled 
Into  the  roaring  of  great  waves  that  smile 
The  broken  vanguard  of  the  chff  :  the  rage 
Of  storm-black  tigers  in  the  startled  night 
Among  the  jackals  of  the  wind  and  rain. 

lU 


112       OU-YANG  HSIU   OF  LU-LING 

It  burst  upon  the  hanging  bell,  and  set 

The  silver  pendants  chattering.     It  seemed 

A  muflfled  march  of  soldiers  hurriedly 

Sped  to  the  night  attack  with  muffled  mouths, 

When  no  command  is  heard,  only  the  tramp 

Of  men  and  horses  onward.     "  Boy,"  said  I, 

"Whatsoundisthat?    Goforthandsee."    My  boy, 

Returning,  answered,  "  Lord  !   the  moon  and  all 

Her  stars  shine  fair  ;  the  silver  river  spans 

The  sky.     No  sound  of  man  is  heard  without ; 

'Tis  but  a  whisper  of  the  trees."     "  Alas  !  " 

I  cried,  "  then  Autumn  is  upon  us  now. 

'Tis  thus,  0  boy,  that  Autumn  comes,  the  cold 

Pitiless  autumn  of  the  wrack  and  mist. 

Autumn,  the  season  of  the  cloudless  sky, 

Autumn,  of  biting  blasts,  the  time  of  bhght 

And  desolation  ;  following  the  chill 

Stir  of  disaster,  with  a  shout  it  leaps 

Upon  us.     All  the  gorgeous  pageantry 

Of  green  is  changed.     All  the  proud  foliage 

Of  the  crested  forests  is  shorn,  and  shrivels  down 

Beneath  the  blade  of  ice.     For  this  is  Autumn, 

Nature's  chief  executioner.     It  takes 

The  darkness  for  a  symbol.     It  assumes 

The  temper  of  proven  steel.     Its  symbol  is 

A  sharpened  sword.     The  avenging  fiend,  it  rides 

Upon  an  atmosphere  of  death.     As  Spring, 

Mother  of  many-coloured  birth,  doth  rear 

The  young  Hght-hearted  world,  so  Autumn  drains 

The  nectar  of  the  world's  maturity. 


AUTUMN  113 

And  sad  the  hour  when  all  ripe  things  must  pass, 

For  sweetness  and  decay  are  of  one  stem, 

And  sweetness  ever  riots  to  decay. 

Still,  what  availeth  it  ?     The  trees  will  fall 

In  their  due  season.     Sorrow  cannot  keep 

The  plants  from  fading.    Stay  !  there  yet  is  man — 

Man,  the  divinest  of  all  things,  whose  heart 

Hath  known  the  shipwreck  of  a  thousand  hopes, 

Who  bears  a  hundred  wrinkled  tragedies 

Upon  the  parchment  of  his  brow,  whose  soul 

Strange  cares  have  lined  and  interlined,  until 

Beneath  the  burden  of  life  his  inmost  self 

Bows  down.     And  s\vifter  still  he  seeks  decay 

When  groping  for  the  unattainable 

Or  grieving  over  continents  unknown. 

Then  come  the  snows  of  time.     Are  they  not  due  ! 

Is  man  of  adamant  he  should  outlast 

The  giants  of  the  grove  ?     Yet  after  all 

Who  is  it  saps  his  strength  save  man  alone  ? 

Tell  me,  0  boy,  by  what  imagined  right 

Man  doth  accuse  his  Autumn  blast  ?  "     My  boy 

Slumbered  and  answered  not.     The  cricket  gave 

The  only  answer  to  my  song  of  death. 

AT  THE   GRAVESIDE 

Years  since  we  last  foregathered,  0  Man-ch'ing  I 

Methinks  I  sec  thee  now, 

Lord  of  the  noble  brow, 
And  courage  from  thy  glances  challenging. 

8 


114       OU-YANG  HSIU   OF  LU-LING 

Ah  !  when  thy  tired  Umbs  were  fain  to  keep 
The  purple  cerements  of  sleep, 

Thy  dim  beloved  form 

Passed  from  the  sunshine  warm, 
From  the  corrupting  earth,  that  sought  to  hold 
Its  beauty,  to  the  essence  of  pure  gold. 
Or  haply  art  thou  some  far- towering  pine, — 

Some  rare  and  wondrous  flower  ? 

What  boots  it,  this  sad  hour  ? 
Here  in  thy  loneliness  the  eglantine 
Weaves  her  sweet  tapestries  above  thy  head, 

While  blow  across  thy  bed, 
Moist  with  the  dew  of  heaven,  the  breezes  chill : 
Fire-fly,  will-o'-the-wisp,  and  wandering  star 
Glow  in  thy  gloom,  and  naught  is  heard  but  the  far 
Chanting  of  woodman  and  shepherd  from  the  hill, 
Naught  but  the  startled  bird  is  seen 
Soaring  away  in  the  moonland  sheen, 
Or  the  hulk  of  the  scampering  beast  that  fears 
Their  plaintive  lays  as,  to  and  fro, 

The  pallid  singers  go. 
Such  is  thy  lonehness.     A  thousand  years, 
Haply  ten  thousand,  hence  the  fox  shall  make 
His  fastness  in  thy  tomb,  the  weasel  take 
Her  young  to  thy  dim  sanctuary.     Such  is  the  lot 
For  ever  of  the  great  and  wise, 

Whose  tombs  around  us  rise  ; 
Man  honours  where  the  grave  remembers  not. 

Ah  !   that  a  song  could  bring 

Peace  to  thy  dust,  Man-ch'ing  ! 


APPENDIX 

In  the  ppeparation  of  this  Uttle  volume  I  have  drawn  largely 
upon  the  prose  translations  of  the  great  English  and  French 
pioneers  in  the  field  of  Chinese  literature,  notably  Professor 
Giles  and  the  Marquis  d'Hervey-Saint-Denys.  The  copy  of 
the  latter 's  Poesies  des  Thang  which  I  possess  has  been  at 
various  times  the  property  of  William  Morris,  York  Powell, 
and  John  Payne,  and  contains  records  of  all  three,  and  pencil 
notes  of  illuminating  criticism,  for  which  I  believe  the  trans- 
lator of  The  Arabian  Nights  is  mainly  responsible.  My 
thanks  are  due  to  Mr.  Lionel  Giles  for  the  translation  of  Po 
Chii-i's  "  Peaceful  Old  Ago,"  and  for  the  thorough  revision  of 
the  Chinese  names  throughout  the  book.  Mr.  Walter  Old  is 
also  responsible  for  a  few  of  Po  Chii-i's  shorter  poems  here 
rendered.  For  the  convenience  of  readers  who  desire  to 
pursue  the  subject  further,  I  have  appended  a  short  list  of 
the  very  few  books  obtainable.  In  this  matter  Jlr.  A. 
Probsthain  has  given  me  invaluable  assistance. 

THE    ODES 

The  Kino,  or  Book  of  Chinese  Poetry,  being  the  Collection  of 
Ballads,  Sagas,  Hymns,  etc. ,  translated  by  C.  E.  R.  Allen,  1891. 

The  best  book  available  on  the  Odes  of  Confucius.  It  con- 
tains a  complete  metrical  translation. 

The  Old  Poetrv  Classic  of  the  Chinese,  a  metrical 
translation  by  W.  Jennings,  with  notes,  1891. 

The  Odes  of  Confucius,  rendered  by  L.  Cranmer-Byng. 

A  free  metrical  rendering  in  The  Wisdom  of  the  East  Series. 

The  Chinese  Text,  with  French  and  Latin  translations,  by 
S.  Couvreur,  1896. 

CH'IJ    YUAN 

Ch'u  YxJan's  Tsoo-Sze  Elegies  of  Cn'tx,  in  stanzas  and 
linos,  edited  by  Wang  Yi,  2nd  Century.  In  Chinese.  A  reprint, 
1885. 

The  Same — Li  Sao.  Poeme  traduit  du  Chinois  par  le 
Marquis  d'Hervey-Saint-Denys.     Paris,  1870. 

The  Same — Li  Sao.  Chinese  Text,  with  English  translation 
and  notes  by  J.  Legge.     London,  1876. 

115 


116  APPENDIX 

THE    T'ANG    DYNASTY 

Chinkse  Literature,  by  H.  A.  Giles.  Short  Histories  of 
The  Literatures  of  the  World  Series,  190L 

The  standard  hook,  containing  a  survey  of  Chinese  Literature 
from  the  earliest  times  up  to  about  1850.  Professor  Giles 
devotes  considerable  space  to  the  poets  of  the  T^ang  dynasty,  and 
gives  some  delightful  renderings  of  the  greater  poets,  such  as 
Li  Po  and  Tu  Fu.^ 

Poesies  de  l'Epoque  des  Thang.  Paris,  1862.  By  the 
Marquis  d'Hervey-Saint-Denys. 

A  valuable  monograph  on  the  poetry  of  the  T'ang  period, 
containing  tnany  prose  translations  and  a  careful  study  of 
Chinese  verse  form. 

The  Jade  Chaplet,  in  Twenty-four  Beads.  A  Collection 
of  Songs,  Ballads,  etc.,  from  the  Chinese,  by  G.  C.  Stent. 
London,  1874. 

Contains  translations  of  some  of  the  old  Chinese  ballads  on  the 
subject  of  the  Emperor  Ming  Huang  of  the  T'ang  dynasty.  The 
verse  is  poor  in  quality  but  the  subject-matter  of  great  interest. 

Poems  of  the  T'ang  Dynasty,  in  Chinese.     Two  volumes. 

Ueber  zwei  Sammlungen  chinesischer  Gedichte  aus 
DER  Dynastie  Thang,  von  H.  Plath.     Vienna,  1869. 

Bluten  chinesischer  Dichtung,  aus  der  Zeit  der  Han- 
sechs  Dynastie.     Magdeburg,  1899. 

A  most  valuable  book  on  the  subject.  Contains  21  Chinese 
illustrations. 

GENERAL 
The  Poetry  of  the  Chinese,  by  Sir  Jolm  Davis.     London, 
1870. 

An  interesting  essay  on  Chinese  poetry,  together  with  several 
examples  rendered  into  English  verse.  Owing,  however,  to  the 
researches  of  later  sinologues,  many  of  his  conclusions,  especially 
as  regards  pronunciation,  are  out  of  date. 

La  Pobsie  Chinoise,  by  C.  de  Harlez.     Bruxelles,   1892. 

The  best  treatise  on  Chinese  poetry  that  has  yet  appeared. 
The  passage  dealing  with  Chinese  style  is  especially  illuminating. 
The  whole  essay  is  deserving  of  a  wider  circulation. 

Notes  on  Chinese  Literature,  by  A.  Wylie.  London, 
1867. 

Contains  a  vast  deal  of  interesting  information  on  the  subject 
of  Chinese  literature,  and  notices  of  all  the  important  collectiont 
of  Chinese  verse  that  have  been  made  from  the  earliest  times. 


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